


The Greatest Challenge

by VelkynKarma



Series: Parallel by Proxy [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Gen, Illness, Injury, Inspired by The Most Dangerous Game, Kuron (Voltron)-centric, Kuron is Shiro (Voltron)'s Clone, Nightmares, PTSD, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Wilderness Survival, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: Getting the Rembelii to join the coalition should be in the bag, an easy first mission back for Ryou after months of recovery. He shouldn't need Shiro for backup at all. But the leader of Rembeliss isn't interested in the coalition; he's interested in Champion and a challenge, and won't take no for an answer.





	1. Prologue: The Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BossToaster (ChaoticReactions)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticReactions/gifts).



> We're back for one last huzzah before S5 drops! This fic was prompted to me by Bosstoaster as part of a fic swap. You can catch her half later this week, also delightfully Ryou-centric!

“I trust your meal was acceptable?” Xencherak, Prime Exalt of of the planet of Rembeliss, asks as they follow him and his attendants on a tour of the lodge.  
  
“Exquisite,” Ryou admits, without even needing to play up the meal for nicety’s sake. Hunk would have loved to taste dinner here, he’s sure. Ryou’s still not even close to Hunk’s skill in the kitchen, but he’s been learning enough in the past months to start to pick apart the different aromas and flavors, and someone on Xencherak’s staff is a master of the culinary arts.  
  
Xencherak smiles—a curious expression accomplished by not showing teeth and tilting his head at an odd angle. The people of Rembeliss are whipcord lean, covered in scales, and look a lot like cobra-people, if cobras came with long, skinny legs and two sets of arms. Xencherak even has something akin to a cobra hood instead of hair on his humanoid head, although it’s currently retracted, which means he’s in a good mood. If it wasn’t, they might be in trouble.  
  
Ryou doesn’t expect Rembeliss to be a problem though, honestly. It was why Shiro and Allura had chosen it for his first mission back after months of recovery. They were keeping the training wheels on, so to speak, and Rembeliss was practically in the bag already. It was still a neutral planet, unaffiliated with either the Galra or Voltron. But they had a strong military presence and had expressed their distaste with the Galra by repelling initial invasion attempts on two occasions, and they’d made it clear they were tired of Zarkon’s advances. They were already interested enough in the coalition to listen before Ryou had even shown up to begin diplomatic talks. The only way Ryou could mess it up would be if he murdered their leader, something he’s not inclined to do.  
  
But it’s good practice, getting back into the swing of things. It lets Ryou exercise some dormant skills and test the waters without actually putting a major alliance at risk or putting a planet in jeopardy. As far as getting re-introduced to the field goes, it’s the best job he could get, and it feels good to be active and productive again.  
  
Xencherak glances over Ryou’s shoulder expectantly. “Paladin?”  
  
“Very good,” Shiro agrees neutrally. “It was delicious.”  
  
Shiro’s there in the capacity of a bodyguard more than a diplomat, and Ryou can tell he’s doing his best to not get involved. He feels a slight twitch of irritation when Xencherak gives his predecessor extra attention, but lets it go. Paladin armor cuts a pretty striking figure in general, and the black paladin in particular has a way of drawing attention. Ryou had noticed it himself, when he’d worn the color. Being unobtrusive is pretty much impossible when in full paladin gear; it’s intended to be worn by figureheads.  
  
Still, Ryou appreciates that Shiro’s _trying_ , at least. Ryou had only just been approved by Coran recently for non-combative, diplomatic work, but wasn’t yet approved for fieldwork that could be dangerous. Even taking a diplomatic job that was already in the bag, he’d been required to have at least some form of backup, and Shiro had been the obvious choice. He knew Ryou’s health and abilities the best, enough to cover for him in the event of an emergency, and to take care of the mission if something went wrong. Plus, it let them re-establish to the public that they were two separate people, something that needed to be reinforced again after Ryou’s months of illness and recovery out of the public eye.  
  
It’s a job Shiro could easily wrap up himself in a quintent, but he’s at least trying to step back and let Ryou handle it himself. It’s not Shiro’s fault that Xencherak keeps paying more attention to the paladin bodyguard than the diplomatic envoy actually sent to meet with him.  
  
“Excellent,” Xencherak says, clapping one set of hands. “The greens were grown in my own lodge gardens. And the bouldernoose I hunted myself, just yesterday. A savage fighter, but I have never backed down from a challenge, and bouldernoose is quite savory once the fight is taken out of it.”  
  
He makes that strange toothless smile at them again, as his attendants lead them into a reception hall to speak after the dinner. Ryou doesn’t miss how his eyes fix on Shiro—behind him—more than Ryou himself, but he does his best to let it pass, and smiles back without showing any teeth. Showing teeth is a sign of aggression to the Rembelii, and there’s no need to put them on the wrong foot.  
  
The reception hall is one part throne room and one part gallery. There’s a dais on the far end, on which a throne is set, and a wide open space in the center where petitioners seeking their Prime Exalt’s favor can stand and make their case. The edges of the room are filled with what Ryou can only assume are trophies. Massive stuffed creatures line the walls and fill the corners, and other animal parts—horns, scales, claws, teeth, skins, and sometimes entire heads—are mounted on plaques on the walls. Some of the beasts look to have been truly enormous. Ryou wouldn’t relish meeting any of them in the field unexpectedly.  
  
“My victories,” Xencherak says, watching both Ryou and Shiro scanning the room. “Every creature here I personally hunted and killed, after a glorious chase. Some are from our planet here—“ he gestures at a creature that looks like a cross between a cat and a bull, made out of stone, “—and others I had the pleasure of hunting on other planets, when looking for fresh challenges for game.”  
  
His second set of arms gesture at a pair of preserved creatures in the far corner. Ryou is startled to realize they are the same large, tusked purple lizard-creatures that had nearly eaten him— _Shiro_ —when a collapsing wormhole had split the team feebs ago. Based on Shiro’s sharp hiss of surprise behind him, he recognizes them very well, too.  
  
“Ah—you like the veskills?” Xencherak says, watching their reactions. “Fascinating creatures. They hunt in packs. Difficult to bring down, and very determined to have their prey once scented. They made for an interesting challenge, certainly.”  
  
His eyes glitter as he watches Shiro, who’s still staring at the lizard-things—veskills, apparently. Shiro doesn’t answer, so Ryou says, “They look quite dangerous. They’re covered in an awful lot of pointy things…and those tails don’t look too friendly, either.”  
  
They aren’t—he has a pretty vivid memory, regardless of whether or not it’s his, of getting smacked hard enough to be sent flying by one when he’d been trying to escape. But he’s better off not telling the Prime Exalt that. Xencherak seems to put a lot by strength, and admitting they’d been whupped by four of the things he’d hunted—even if they’d been severely injured and coming off a major battle—probably wasn’t the best way to win his favor.  
  
Xencherak makes another toothless smile, this one knowing. “An accurate analysis, Diplomat Ryou. They use their tusks for charging, and the tails are used like whips and bludgeons to batter prey into submission and take their legs from under them. Their sense of scent is outstanding, and they use quintessal vocalizations to communicate for pack hunting at long range. Those two were part of a pack of five. I hunted them solo, of course. I began at night…”  
  
He falls into a story about how he’d fought the veskills, guiding them and his small entourage of attendants and guards over to the two preserved creatures. Ryou lets him talk, listening politely, or at least as politely as he can while staring at the faces of the things that had almost killed him— _Shiro_ —once. The creatures had been posed to look fierce, but their aggressive stances seem accurate, from what he not-exactly-remembers. And based on not-his memories, Xencherak’s story is accurate, too. The guy certainly likes to hear himself talk, and to talk himself up. But he also knows what he’s doing, and Ryou doesn’t think he’s lying about taking down a full pack of five of these things.  
  
Of course, he’d also been armed with a high-intensity laser rifle and all the latest survival gear, he hadn’t been injured, and he’d been _intending_ to go find the things, so he’d been ready for them. But still. Not an idiot.  
  
Xencherak, for his part, tells his story with obvious pride, but Ryou also catches him repeatedly glancing at Shiro more than himself all through it. Shiro is stony-faced, every inch playing a bodyguard and Ryou’s silent shadow. If he doesn’t like being near even dead, preserved veskills he certainly never shows it—to anyone except Ryou, anyway, who knows what to look for. But Xencherak seems like he’s fishing for some sort of reaction. Ryou resolves to keep an eye on that.  
  
When that story is finished, Xencherak moves on to the next of the posed and preserved creatures, this one that Ryou doesn’t recognize. A subtle glance back at Shiro shows just as much of a lack of recognition, and Ryou breathes a sigh of relief. Not a memory he’d lost, then. This is something they’ve legitimately never encountered. Xencherak stops in front of it and tells the tale of another fierce and dangerous hunt for an off-world beast, gesturing dramatically as he does. Ryou has no way to tell if he’s telling the truth, but based on the veskills, he’s got no reason to doubt the Prime Exalt’s story.  
  
“I apologize,” Xencherak says, after guiding them around the room and regaling them with another three or four hunts of epic proportion. “Perhaps I over-speak on the subject. Not all races are as interested in the hunt as I and my own are.” He claps his topmost set of hands, and several of his attendants appear out of nowhere, carrying chairs up on to the dais for his guests. “Come. Let us sit, and speak for a while.”  
  
Ryou is a little relieved, but smart enough not to say so.  
  
“You must understand,” Xencherak continues, as he settles himself easily into his throne, and gestures for them to sit. “Hunting is deeply rooted in the culture of my people. Many of the military strengths your coalition so highly prizes of us are intrinsically buried in our hunting techniques of old. Hundreds of decafeebs ago, the most skilled hunters were able to provide for entire dens of the people, and rose to leadership by virtue of their prowess in the hunt. Today is no different. I am leader amongst my people because I am the best.”  
  
Ryou keeps his face neutral as he sits, while Shiro settles into a stance behind his chair like an actual bodyguard would. Xencherak’s words are arrogant, but not really showboating. He’s considering entering a coalition and willing to entertain diplomatic talks over the subject, but his planet has been able to resist the Galra on its own for decafeebs. He’s trying to prove he and his people aren’t so easily cowed if the coalition has interest in controlling them, and showing off their strength. Ryou will let him pose a little, just so he’s comfortable before they get into actual negotiations, when it will become clear that this is a partnership—on both sides.  
  
Xencherak gestures again for Shiro to sit as well. “Paladin. Please. I know you are here to guard your diplomat, but I am not so disrespectful to think a warrior of the Voltron Lions should be treated like a common guard. My people will not strike your charge. Sit.” Shiro hesitates, but knows better than to piss off the leader of the planet they’re trying to recruit, and eventually takes his own seat.  
  
“Now then,” Xencherak says. “My people have been neutral in this Galra war for several thousands of years. But in recent decafeebs, the Galra have brought their fight to us. And they do not respect our culture or our history. They enjoy our military might but wish to destroy the entire planet for their terraforming and strip-mining and colonization. They have no subtlety; they throw too much power at their opponents and simply overwhelm them with little chance of resistance. They do not understand the meaning of the hunt. They do not respect the fair play of the challenge of predator and prey. They simply destroy. They would not listen to us.” He smiles—and this time it’s full of sharp, pointed snake-like fangs. “So we began to hunt them, instead.”  
  
Ryou feels a chill run up his spine at that. It takes all his considerable skill to keep his face even. “We’ve seen that you’ve repelled them twice. That is no easy feat. Your strengths would be invaluable in the coalition—with your military prowess alongside Voltron and the other members of the alliance, we could easily drive them back farther.”  
  
“Possible, I suppose,” Xencherak says, waving one of his arms dismissively. “Galra do not make for much of an interesting hunt, however. They do not have any business on my planet, and so we got rid of them. I do not find them so interesting to fight that I would willingly hunt them off of Rembeliss. Tell me,” he says, abrupt, “Do _you_ understand the hunt?”  
  
His eyes linger on Shiro for a fraction of a second before turning to Ryou. Shiro keeps his mouth shut, letting Ryou handle the diplomacy, but Ryou doesn’t miss the look. “We have been a bit busy with the coalition,” Ryou says cautiously. “It’s well-funded and many planets in the alliance are not combative so much as they provide support. I assure you, if your people assist with combat, they certainly won’t starve. They may be hunting Galra and not game, but they will be provided for.”  
  
“My people have no need for such charity,” Xencherak says dismissively. “We can provide and fight. I suppose you have been busy with your coalition, however, and hunting the Galra in your own way. I have watched your exploits. The bond of a paladin and his great beast is an impressive thing, is it not?”  
  
He eyes Shiro again, this time much more deliberately. “That great black cat outside is your hunting beast, yes? Your prey is much larger than a simple beast in the wild, but you hunt well with your companions. I have never seen much use for hunting with pack animals, myself, but I understand the method is used on other planets, pack-bonding with creatures of different skills to catch quarry together.”  
  
“I…suppose that’s true,” Shiro says.  
  
“Of course it is,” Xencherak says, settling back into his throne. He returns to looking at both of them. “I do not speak of your Lions, however. Tell me of Earthlings. That is what you are, yes?”“Humans,” Ryou corrects, “But yes.”  
  
“Tell me. Are _humans_ hunters? Do they understand the trueness of battle, of predator against prey?”  
  
Ryou knows the trap when he sees it, and something uneasy settles in his stomach. Xencherak clearly takes this worldview extremely seriously, and he knows he’d better have a stronger answer than the Galra’s. At the same time, there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that’s starting to dig at him at this line of questioning. He’s suddenly and uncomfortably aware of sitting in the den of a snake who seems to have no real need for the coalition, and the wrong answer here might be enough for the entire negotiation to fall through—and to potentially earn a dangerous enemy.  
  
He finally answers with, “Humans are apex predators back on our home planet. Persistence hunting is thought to be attributed to some of the ways we evolved to this day.”  
  
Xencherak smiles—toothlessly, this time, thank goodness—and seems intrigued by the answer. “Fascinating. I had wondered. You don’t appear to have any sort of natural defenses or weapons. But if endurance is your weapon…yes, I can see it in you. In the way your people hunt with your beasts, eternally harrying the larger predator that is the Galra Empire. You are tireless fighters. Yes, you understand the balance of the hunt. I can see these talks were not a waste of time after all.”  
  
It sounds agreeable, but the uneasy feeling in Ryou’s stomach gets worse, and he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Something’s not right here. Best to be cautious. “I’m glad you’re open to negotiations,” he says, with his best agreeable diplomat tone. “I assure you, joining the coalition will be beneficial for all parties involved, and our alliance strives to protect and respect the cultures of all of its members.”  
  
Xencherak waves one of his hands dismissively. “I care not for your coalition. As long as the Galra stay away off my planet, they can have the rest of the universe for all I care. I wished to see if Earthlings understood the nature of the hunt, and to test the mettle of Champion myself.”  
  
Ryou’s blood runs cold at the mention of ‘Champion,’ and it takes every ounce of skill he has to not react, and to stay where he is. His first instinct is to bolt for the door, and not look back. Beside him, he can just barely catch the slight tensing of Shiro’s shoulders out of the corner of his eye, and he knows without question that Shiro is having the same battle in his own head.  
  
There are only two kinds of people that ever refer to him—to _Shiro_ —as Champion: prison slaves, and arena patrons. Xencherak has never been a slave in his life. Absolutely nothing good can come of being here.  
  
But Xencherak is a hunter—bolting is the _last_ thing they should be doing, even if this is the last place they should be. If they run, he’ll chase. It is, as he says himself, the nature of the hunt.  
  
“Now that I have seen you myself,” Xencherak continues, seemingly oblivious to the fight-or-flight response the both of them are hiding, “I am confident that you are everything I had expected. To be perfectly honest, I had not anticipated meeting you so soon; I assumed I would have to negotiate with the Altean princess, the way the other invitations have worked in the past feebs, and join before having the opportunity. Imagine my excitement when I discovered our negotiations would be attended by you personally.”  
  
He watches Shiro with interest, and Ryou has the awful and sudden realization as to _why_ the Prime Exalt has been paying Shiro so much attention that night. It’s not a matter of Shiro inadvertently drawing focus away from Ryou. Shiro had been the focus from the beginning.  
  
“That’s…flattering,” Shiro says. Ryou doesn’t think anyone else unfamiliar with him would catch the hesitation in his voice. “I’m honored to meet you.”  
  
“But if you have no interest in the coalition, then we really shouldn’t be wasting your time,” Ryou cuts in quickly. He stands, offering a polite bow, and keeps his movements as slow and unthreatening as possible while still remaining natural. _Don’t act like prey._ Don’t _act like prey, not around this guy._ “Thank you for hosting us, and for treating us to that delightful meal. We won’t take up any more of your time. We know how precious it is to your people and your culture.”  
  
Xencherak’s head tilts, in what Ryou can only assume is the equivalent of a raised brow for these brow-less people. “Leave? I have little interest in your coalition, but I would hardly be an acceptable host if you left so soon. And I have been preparing for Champion’s visit. It would be improper of you to leave before we are finished. You must stay for the duration, or I would be quite offended.”  
  
His tone is mild, but Ryou is suddenly very aware of the guards at the doors, and of Xencherak’s waiting attendants. They’re outnumbered at least twenty to one, and even if none of the Rembelii have reacted aggressively yet, Ryou is sure they will the moment he and Shiro try to leave. Ryou isn’t technically field approved, although he could fight in a pinch if needed—but there’s no way he can help take on _that_ many opponents all spread out like this, and no way Shiro can do it alone.  
  
Maybe if they called the Black Lion—Shiro has a better connection to it, enough that it might come running if he’s suddenly in peril, but Ryou could give it a shot, too. He’d been able to feel the Lion’s presence when they’d flown here, even if Shiro had been the one to pilot it. But when he reaches with his mind, he realizes he can’t feel the Lion at all, anymore. Something about Xencherak’s lodge, or some skill of his, is blocking the connection. They’re on their own.  
  
Damn it.  
  
“We do have quite a lot of work to take care of, with the coalition,” Ryou tries, one last time. “We mean no offense, of course, but—“  
  
“You are not expected back for several quintents,” Xencherak interrupts. “You were informed procedure would take as long, when arrangements were first made. You want my peoples’ military prowess. You agreed, and presumably, you made arrangements to be away for the length of time. I do not believe I am keeping you from any work that cannot be done when it was planned for, in five quintents’ time. Therefore, to leave would mean _quite_ an offense.” Xencherak gestures to Ryou’s chair. “So you will both listen, then?”  
  
Ryou grits his teeth as he sits. He chokes out a “Yes,” almost simultaneously with Shiro. But they exchange looks out of the corners of their eyes when they do. They might be cornered—for the moment—but if there is one thing they both individually have in common, it’s escape attempts that they take the moment the first chance appears.  
  
“Very good.” Xencherak offers one of his toothless smiles. “You read a situation well. I expect nothing less of Champion, and any of his entourage. I would not suggest attempting to leave before we have finished extending our hospitality. You may find it disagreeable.”  
  
It’s the most polite way to say they’re prisoners, but Ryou doesn’t miss the warning steely tone beneath Xencherak’s mild words. Fine. If he wants to play the polite diplomat game, then Ryou can play, too, at least to stall until they can find a way to escape. “You seemed to have something else you wanted to discuss,” he says, trying to force the curtness out of his voice. “If not a discussion about the coalition, then what did you have in mind?”  
  
“To business, then. I appreciate your directness, diplomat.” Xencherak waves a hand in the air, gesturing around the room at his myriad of trophies. “I have regaled you with some of my most favorite memories. Each one delights me. The thrill of each hunt has been something I will always cherish.  
  
“But of late, I find that the thrill has diminished.” He sighs. “Simple beasts no longer provide such entertaining sport. The nature of the hunt is gone. When the hunter becomes too powerful, the challenge is minimal, and that is where the hunt really finds its heart.”  
  
Ryou has a sudden, terrible idea of where this is heading.  
  
“When I was a young hunter, I had hunted every beast my planet had to offer,” Xencherak continues. “I knew the lands and the creatures too well. I could not be bested. For this skill I earned the title of Prime Exalt, but my heart was not fulfilled.  
  
“Space travel helped, for a time. I discovered new and fascinating creatures to hunt, off-planet.” He gestures at the veskills again. “Once again, the thrill of the hunt was everything. The creatures were new, and exciting. I did not live their lands; they had the advantage, and I was the one forced to adapt. For decafeebs, this kept me satisfied.  
  
“But alas, even that grew wearying.” Xenchrack shakes his head. “Beasts of other worlds are, at the end of the quintent, still beasts. Eventually, the patterns are the same. Once again, the hunt was not fulfilling. But then the Galra came.” He smiles, and this time it’s full of teeth. Once again, Ryou can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, and a little, primal, instinctive voice inside of him starts screaming to run, run, _run!_  
  
“The battles were uninteresting, but the hunts—now _those_ provided entertainment, for a time,” Xencherak says. His eyes light up with excitement. “I took some officers as prisoners. I let them escape. And then I hunted them. And they provided the greatest challenges yet. They have instincts, certainly, but there was an intelligence and an unpredictable nature to their escape attempts that was unlike any other creature I have ever hunted. It was fascinating. It was challenging. And once again, the thrill had returned.”  
  
Ryou exchanges alarmed looks with Shiro in the brief moment their host closes his eyes in bliss. Shiro’s definitely on the same page as Ryou, and their expressions are probably identical. They need to get out of here, _yesterday._  
  
“It didn’t last forever,” their host says, opening his eyes with a sigh. “I varied the environments, changed the game. I let them know they were fleeing, and made it a challenge. If they evaded me, they could win a prize. Or their lives. For a time it worked, but eventually it all became the same again.” He snorts. “Galra are by and large the same. They may go about the task differently, as individuals, but most are aggressive warmongers. After a while they wouldn’t play anymore. They came straight for me. The game became uninteresting. The hunt lost its luster.” He shows teeth again. “But I learned something, then. Prey that _thinks_ is the most dangerous kind, with the most challenge, and the hunt is most rewarding.”  
  
“And you want us,” Ryou observes, blunt and to the point.  
  
“I want _Champion,_ ” Xencherak corrects, regarding Ryou dismissively. “Finding good prey is difficult, you see. Sentient challenges vary greatly depending upon their skill, and my people do not travel the worlds often. Taking people off-world is too suspicious. I will not hunt my own—they are hunters by right, and not prey.  
  
“There are certain venues. I’ve purchased slaves from the Galra—through back-water channels, of course, they certainly aren’t aware it’s me. Those are unfortunately hit or miss. The Galra are not particularly discerning with their slaves. Some make excellent prey, especially with the incentive of their freedom. Others are worthless. I kill them within minutes.”  
  
He shrugs. “I’ve even tried purchasing gladiator slaves intentionally, but the same rule applies, when they are on the market—which is not often. The ones that are for sale are usually lower-ring slaves, and ultimately worthless, for little more than cannon fodder against their greatest fighters; they would never have survive long regardless. The real challenges, now, those survivors are just that: survivors. They’d be an interesting hunt, but the Galra don’t give them up easily, and I’ve never been able to get my hands on one.  
  
 “Champion, though—what a catch! Top tier in the rings, a survivor for _months_ , escaped—and now the black paladin, too? The very _best_ quarry. I look forward to our hunt already. It has been too long since I’ve had decent prey.” His eyes fall on Shiro again, predatory and hungry.  
  
Ryou feels a chill at that. Half of him is glad Xencherak isn’t looking in his direction. The other half wants to get up and slug him right here and now, and then run for it, before the bastard ever gets his hands on Shiro. He’s pretty sure this hunt will only end fatally for the prey, and he’s not interested in letting that happen.  
  
The second half wins out. He’s not stupid enough to physically get up and punch Xencherak in his stupid, snake-like face with two dozen guards and attendants right here, right now. But he does the next best thing, and strikes with the weapon he _is_ still authorized to use: his brain.  
  
“That’s a common misconception,” Ryou says, forcing his voice to remain calm.  
  
Xencherak blinks once, slowly, and turns his head to regard Ryou with only passing interest. “That Champion would make excellent prey?” he asks, showing teeth. “I beg to differ.”  
  
“That Champion and the black paladin are one and the same,” Ryou clarifies, fighting back the primal instincts screaming for him to run from the dangerous, hungry snake. He breathes once, and his heartbeat and mind both settle as the plan forms in his head. Already, he can feel himself altering his own speech and thought patterns as he falls back into ‘Shiro’ with an ease that is almost frightening. “If you want to play a game with Champion, you want me. Leave the paladin out of this.”  
  
Shiro’s expression goes through an interesting shift almost too fast to follow, _shock-realization-horror-fury_ has he catches Ryou’s plan even as it’s implemented. He opens his mouth to object, but Xencherak speaks first.  
  
“You’re bluffing,” the Prime Exalt says, eyes narrowed. “Do you honestly expect me to believe such a story?”  
  
“I honestly don’t see why you wouldn’t,” Ryou says, giving Shiro a warning _don’t fight me on this_ look disguised as a casual glance. “We look fairly similar. It’s not uncommon for people to mistake us as one and the same. _I’m_ the one that fought in the arenas.”  
  
It’s not _technically_ a lie. It’s just not the whole truth, either.  
  
“And why should I believe such a thing? If you are Champion, you’ve no need of a bodyguard.”  
  
Ryou looks him straight in the eye, despite every instinct screeching in the back of his head not to challenge the predator. “Why make one of your stronger fighters and diplomats such an obvious target? The one with the armor is the first one you’re going to go for.”  
  
“What the hell are you _doing?”_ Shiro hisses at him.  
  
Ryou’s afraid the outburst will ruin the deception, but Xencherak regards the two of them curiously for a moment, before his eyes light on Ryou. Ryou feels a chill run up his spine when he realizes he’s suddenly, for the first time that night, got the Prime Exalt’s full attention. “Ambush predation,” he murmurs. “Intriguing. Your double does not seem pleased you’ve revealed yourself.”  
  
“He hasn’t revealed anything,” Shiro snaps. “He’s not—“  
  
“He’s not a part of this,” Ryou says, speaking over Shiro. _Please, for once in your life, just play along with me on this,_ he mentally begs. Shiro won’t hear him, but he’s hoping his tone will be enough. “If there’s no way to avoid this game, then fine. I’ll play. But leave him out of this. He’s just a bystander.”  
  
_“Bystander?”_ Shiro hisses. “That’s not true. _I’m_ the one you’re looking for. Leave _him_ out of this. Champion and the black paladin are one and the same. Ryou is a diplomat and innocent in all of this.”  
  
Ryou curses mentally, especially when Shiro shoots him a look that’s furious on the surface, but definitely worried underneath. _You’re not strong enough for combat yet,_ the look all but screams. _Stop putting yourself in danger. I can handle this._  
  
Except he can’t. Ryou knows he can’t, not by himself. This bastard has been _planning_ to face Champion. He’s probably reviewed fight feeds and Galra records to prepare for his latest prey. He’ll know more of the fights than either Shiro or Ryou will, and he’ll plan accordingly. But Ryou doesn’t fight the same, not anymore, even if he’s not technically fit for combat yet. If Ryou can get Shiro out of the challenge—stall and buy him time—  
  
But judging by the look on Shiro’s face, he’s thinking along nearly the same lines. The problem with springing from the same mind is thinking too similarly in moments like these.  
  
“That’s not—“ Ryou begins.  
  
Xencherak throws up one of his hands, and interrupts sharply, eyes narrowed at them both. “You’re _nestmates,”_ he says, with sudden realization.  
  
Ryou freezes. So does Shiro.  
  
“The rumors say you are twins,” Xencherak says. “The similarities certainly make it believable. You are attempting to protect each other from the hunt.” He shows teeth. “Admirable, but foolish. I don’t care which one of you is Champion, now. Pack-prey _always_ makes for the best hunting.”  
  
Ryou feels his heart ice over in dread. Shiro’s wearing a face that says he feels nearly the same thing. Ryou doesn’t know how they did it, but in trying to protect each other, they’ve somehow made things _much,_ much worse.  
  
“Excellent,” Xencherak says, still smiling, and not in the friendly way. “Unprecedented, even to me. I’d intended to sell the diplomat back to the Galra in exchange for more arena slaves, but this is a much more interesting challenge. I will hunt you both together.”  
  
“That’s not necessary—“ Shiro starts.  
  
“Leave him out of this—“ Ryou hisses furiously.  
  
“Enough!” Xencherak snarls, and for the first time his cobra-like hood flares in warning, revealing bright colors and patterns normally folded away neatly. Shiro and Ryou both fall silent, but both of them leap to their feet warily as well, ready for a fight.  
  
Xencherak does not attack, although several of his guards level their guns at the both of them warningly. “Enough,” Xencherak repeats, calmer, as his hood folds back away. He remains settled in his throne. “As you are both a part of the hunt, you may both remain for the rules. I am sporting. You may very well live, although I will warn you, I am very good.”  
  
“Not much of a warning,” Ryou says, a touch bitterly. “It’s not like you’re letting us back out.”  
  
“Your diplomacy is slipping, nestmate,” Xencherak says, with a nasty smile. “Listen well. I will not repeat myself. The challenge is for three quintents. You will have a single quintent to establish yourselves in the hunting grounds; I am not unreasonable, and I do like a challenge. At the end of the first quintent, I will enter the field. I will hunt you. If I find you, I will kill you. If you survive to the end of the three quintents, you are permitted to leave, unchallenged, and I will never trouble you again. You will, of course, complete the challenge without your hunting beast, which is why I have taken the liberty of cutting your bond with a quintessal silencer.” He takes a small, square object with a glowing blue light out of his pocket, holding it up for them to observe, and suddenly Ryou understands why they can’t hear Black anymore. “Have you any questions?”  
  
“How are you going to explain to the coalition what happens to us, if you win?” Ryou asks, blunt.  
  
“Are you counting your loss already, diplomat?” Xencherak asks, showing teeth.  
  
“I’m counting on Voltron taking you down one way or another, no matter how this ends,” Ryou says. “You think it’s really worth one hunt?”  
  
“Your Black Lion is here,” Xencherak says. “Your team cannot form Voltron without it, or you.” He claps his hands once, and several of the guards start to come closer, several with energy manacles in their hands.  
  
“There are others who can fly it,” Shiro says, eyes narrowed. “And they’ll come, if we don’t show up. Ryou is right. This hunt of yours isn’t worth it. Let us walk away now, or there _will_ be consequences for you and your people.”  
  
Xencherak seems to consider for a moment before speaking. “I will take the chances. Perhaps the rest of your Team Voltron will make just as entertaining prey, if they are part of the pack of Champion, yes?”  
  
Ryou bristles at that, and beside him, Shiro’s expression turns furious. And in that moment, it’s like a perfect understanding passes between them. There’s no reasoning with this crazy bastard, and no point in trying.  
  
So they strike.  
  
Shiro yells as he lashes out at Xencherak in his throne with an already brilliantly glowing violet-white hand. Xencherak hisses as he throws himself out of his chair, and Shiro carves a deep score into the chair-back. Several of the guards shout frantically as their leader is attacked, and Xencherak rises to his full height like a cobra, showing teeth and hood flared in a warning display. Shiro doesn’t hesitate, and picks up his chair, hurling it into the crowd of approaching guards and attendants. They stagger into each other when hit, or throw themselves between the aggressor and their Prime Exalt protectively.  
  
He makes a hell of a lot of chaos, which is entirely the point. When their eyes are on Shiro, they’re not paying attention to Ryou. Ryou takes a step back from the immediate chaos and, trusting Shiro to handle the close combat for just a few ticks more for the both of them, concentrates hard. His right hand—an artificial construct made by the Olkari—begins to power up as pale green leaf-vein lines run up from his fingertips to his elbow. He pushes his fist in the direction of the nearest, largest preserved beast trophy, and fires.  
  
The thing explodes in a shower of dust or fibers of some kind, and the air is suddenly filled with stuffing material. The guards shriek in surprise as they’re pelted with the remains of the creature, and the visibility in the room immediately takes on the likeness of a snowstorm. It’s suddenly difficult to see three feet in front of himself, and for once Ryou congratulates himself on his good luck. He’d been hoping for a distraction, but this was even better than expected.  
  
_“Run!”_ Shiro hisses, as he darts out of the swirling mess of stuffing. His helmet is already closed against the fibers. Ryou covers his own mouth with his left hand even as Shiro snatches his right wrist—he de-powers it immediately—and they both bolt for the nearest doorway. It’s not guarded any longer, which is perfect. The guards had all closed in to subdue their Prime Exalt’s prey. While it left Shiro and Ryou overwhelmingly outnumbered, it also put all of them in convenient striking distance for clever attacks, and left the rest of the posts unguarded.  
  
“Stop them!” Xencherak shrieks. “Stun them! Do not kill—I will have my hunt!”  
  
They’re almost at the entrance to the reception hall when the guards start firing their weapons. Several of the blasts hit the walls, or strike the stuffed creatures around them, although none of the dead beasts burst. Then Shiro stumbles as several of the strikes hit him, and he jerks like he’s been hit with a taser, releasing Ryou’s wrist. He drops to his knees and collapses into skid on the hard marbled floor, still twitching, eyes already sliding closed.  
  
_“Shiro!”_ Ryou yells. He’s at the door, but he skids to a halt and reverses direction, going back for Shiro. He’s not wearing armor and doesn’t have any kind of shield to protect them—he’s not even sure he can carry Shiro very far, when Shiro still out-weighs him right now—but he’ll be damned if he’s just going to leave him behind.  
  
But he barely makes it two reversed steps before one of the stunning blasts hits him too. For a terrifying moment his lungs seem to freeze on him, and he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t scream. He can’t stand, either, and collapses where he is, skidding to a halt in an ungainly heap some three feet from Shiro.  
  
Then the pain subsides, and he breathes in with a gasp, already trying to push himself to his feet. Shiro’s out cold and helpless, he can see that from here—he needs to get to him, _now—_  
  
But someone blocks him before he can even get to his knees, and Xencherak stares down at him with interest. “What do you know,” the Prime Exalt observes, with his frightening fanged smile. “My men really _did_ attack the armored one first, in excess. Your prediction was correct, Champion. A pity you couldn’t take advantage of it. I will see you in the game.”  
  
Ryou snarls, and tries to lunge at Xencherak, Olkari hand already beginning to glow brightly with power. But something strikes him hard in the side, once, twice, three times. He can’t breathe again, and his whole body feels on fire. He collapses, struggling for air, fighting against the blackness crawling across his vision.  
  
_No,_ he thinks to himself, frantic. _No, it wasn’t supposed to go like this. No one was supposed to get hurt. I was…_  
  
The blackness takes him, and he never gets to finish his thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wanted to write a _The Most Dangerous Game_ style story for a very, very long time, and Toaster finally gave me a reason to do it. Haha!


	2. The First Quintent

Shiro wakes with a groan, and almost immediately wishes he didn’t.   
  
He feels sore everywhere, and his head is pounding. He’s lying on his side, and it feels like he fell asleep in his armor, which is jutting uncomfortably into his side in several places. When he cracks his eyes open, his head pounds harder as the light stabs into them. He winces as he automatically increases the tint on his visor to reduce the glare.   
  
His mind swims as he struggles to put together what happened. For a moment he can’t remember, which is alarming, but then the image of a snake-like leader in his hunting den flashes to the forefront. The leader, and his sick game, and his multitude of guards with large stunning weapons. He remembers the feel of at least seven separate blasts before blacking out, and that had been while wearing protective armor.  
  
“Shit,” he mutters. It’s not his most eloquent response to danger, but it does sum up about how he feels at the moment. His voice slurs a little and his tongue feels awkward in his mouth, probably the after-effects of so many stunning blasts.  
  
He groans as he pushes himself to his hands and knees, and then to his feet. He’s not sure how long he’s been laying there unconscious, but it’s enough to make him feel sore and put a crick in his neck. The ground being hard, dusty, reddish stone doesn’t help either. Moving helps, though, and once he starts actually working his muscles some of the stiffness fades and his pounding headache recedes.   
  
He’s in some kind of circular enclosure, a wire mesh fence with a screened-over top and a gate in one side. There’s some sort of screen mounted to one wall, with two sets of countdowns on it, steadily ticking away. The characters are in a language Shiro doesn’t recognize, but his helmet translates them into Earth numerals. The top readout counts down from sixteen vargas and twenty-seven doboshes, tick by tick. The bottom reads two quintents, sixteen vargas an twenty-seven doboshes and counts down in tandem with the top.   
  
Shiro narrows his eyes at the countdown, before surveying the rest of the enclosure. He turns a slow circle, but the mesh is perfectly intact all the way around, buried down into the stone to keep it solidly in place. He doesn’t have much of a chance to start looking for escape options, though, because once he’s turned completely around, something far more important catches his attention.  
  
Ryou is sprawled on the dusty red stone several feet away from him. They’d been left in the enclosure back to back on their sides, but Ryou is still on the ground, back to Shiro, unmoving. Shiro feels his heart jump into his throat at the sight, and his mind floods with horror. He’d taken multiple stunning blasts with armor and _still_ felt like a wreck. Ryou had been completely defenseless in civilian gear. He couldn’t be…  
  
Shiro throws himself to his knees by Ryou’s side, and checks for a pulse with his left hand just under Ryou’s jaw. To his immense relief, there’s a strong heartbeat at his fingertips. A quick examination shows no other visible damage, other than some minor bruising from being dropped onto the hard stone ground with no notable protection.   
  
Shiro lets out a shaky sigh of relief before nudging his clone’s shoulder. “Hey. Ryou. Get up. Up, now!”   
  
Ryou groans softly in response, and his eyes flutter open before immediately squeezing shut with a whine of pain. “Shit,” he mumbles, which just goes to show how much they still have in common when caught in unexpected and undesired situations.   
  
“It gets better if you get up and move,” Shiro says, not unkindly.   
  
Ryou grumbles incoherently in protest at the thought of moving. After a moment he tries cracking his eyes open again, with another soft hiss, and fixes Shiro with a confused look. “S’goin’ on?” he slurs.  
  
Something about his confusion and uncoordinated speech stabs uncomfortably at all-too-recent memories of Ryou being so helpless and sick. For a moment, he’s frightened— _irrationally, stupidly, unreasonably_ —that something about the stunning blasts had hurt Ryou in worse ways, taking away his memories and pushing him back into that degenerated state.  
  
But then Ryou answers his own question, and scowls. “Xencherak. That crazy _bastard.”_  
  
His speech is already improving, and with the memory back, the last of Shiro’s— _ridiculous, unfounded_ —fears dissolve. Ryou pushes himself to his hands and knees, and although his first attempts are uncoordinated, he shakes off the stiffness in his limbs almost as fast as Shiro did. Once on his feet, he starts brushing reddish dust off of his dark gray and black clothes, although it leaves rusty smears behind all the same.  
  
“How’s your Galra arm holding up?” Ryou asks, as he unsuccessfully tries to brush himself off. “It doesn’t do well with grit, I remember that much. Unlike this Olkari arm, which handles it beautifully.” He gives Shiro a very pointed look.   
  
Ever since Ryou had gotten his new prosthetic, he’s been hounding Shiro with a plethora of reasons on why it’s better, and why Shiro should switch to that model. He hasn’t been successful yet. As much as Shiro would love the more natural bio-mechanical prosthetic, his Galra arm is an unfortunate necessity that can’t be lost just yet. But Ryou hadn’t been wrong about his promise either: he is doggedly persistent once he sets his mind on a goal. Shiro’s not sure if it’s a holdover from clone programming or a trait Ryou developed all on his own, but either way, he does not give up when he gives himself a task to complete. The arm argument is almost comfortably familiar in an unknown setting.  
  
But Shiro’s not buying it, and they have more important things to focus on. “It’s fine,” he says, displaying a full range of motion with his right hand. “The armor protects it just fine. And we have bigger concerns. Feeling better?” He feels fine now, other than some residual aches that will fade once he gets moving.  
  
Ryou gives up on brushing his clothes off, and starts shaking dust out of his air with his left hand. That at least works better, revealing larger patches of silver in his otherwise dark hair. “Fine. Mostly. Minor headache, some soreness. Like I got in a fight and lost. Which isn’t untrue. I’ll live.”   
  
“Good.” Now reassured that Ryou’s health is a non-issue, Shiro scowls at him. “What the _hell_ were you thinking? Why the hell would you go and do that?”  
  
Ryou blinks at him for a moment. “You’ll need to be more specific. I can’t read your mind. Well, not without that weird machine Pidge and Hunk made, anyway, and that was a case-specific situation.”   
  
He’s stalling—they still think too similarly for it to matter—and Shiro knows it, but he still spells it out anyway. “ ‘It’s a common misconception that Champion and the black paladin are one and the same,’ ” he quotes. “Why the hell would you start playing _me_ again? Why draw his attention like that? What are you trying to do, sacrifice yourself?” _After everything we did to save your life, you want to just throw it away?_  
  
Ryou frowns. “I’m not that stupid,” he says. “I figured if I could convince him that I was you—and let’s not forget, I’m _real_ good at that when I want to be—it’d take attention off of you. He only wanted Champion, he was barely giving me the time of day before that. That’d take focus off of you, which would let you break out, get to the Black Lion, and free us _both._ ”   
  
“You can pilot the Black Lion too!” Shiro snaps.   
  
“We don’t know that for sure,” Ryou counters. “It’s rejected me once before. Who knows what that ‘almost dying’ thing might have done to change that.”  
  
“You said you could feel it when I piloted us here!”   
  
Ryou shrugs. “Not really proof that I can fly it until I do, though.”   
  
Shiro scowls. “Even barring that, _I’m_ the only one here approved for combat. He was working towards some kind of challenge. You should have let me take the hit, and run—I’m more capable of handling his challenges than you!”   
  
“By that logic, you’re more fit to _escape_ than me, too,” Ryou counters, folding his arms across his chest. “And you’re the one wearing all the armor. If one of us is going to bust out for a rescue, it’s going to be you. Me? I would just have to stall—with combat styles he’s not familiar with, and hasn’t had a chance to study and tailor-make a challenge to, because I don’t fight completely like you anymore.”  
  
“You can’t fight at _all_ right now!” Shiro groans. “You shouldn’t have—you’re not supposed to be _me_ anymore. You don’t have to take hits for me like that, and it’s not your job to be my body double. I’m here as your bodyguard. My job here is literally to protect you. You should have let me.”  
  
“Look, we can argue procedure and who’s fault it is later,” Ryou says, exasperated. “What’s done is done. We’re both in this together. Neither of us are happy about that and neither of us are on the outside for a rescue. We need to focus on not getting hunted by that lunatic.”  
  
As much as Shiro hates to admit it, Ryou is right. They can’t turn back time, and they have to deal with the consequences. “Fine,” he says. “But we are revisiting this later.”  
  
“If we live that long,” Ryou agrees.   
  
Shiro sighs, but sets his mind to the task at hand. “First step is escaping,” he says, looking around at the wire mesh cage surrounding them. It’s maybe fifteen feet in diameter in a rocky clearing. The cage is backed up against a sheer rock face, and maybe fifty feet away is the start of an odd-looking forest. Something seems off about the trees, but Shiro can’t tell what at this distance.  
  
“I don’t think it’s really escaping, actually,” Ryou says, taking in the enclosure thoughtfully. “Look at that junction box. I think it’s wired to shock things that touch the fence, but from the outside.”   
  
Shiro spots the box when Ryou points at it, mounted on the other side of the fencing. “Oh,” he realizes. “It doesn’t keep us in—it keeps hunting animals out while we’re unconscious. And provides a starting point for this so-called ‘game.’ “   
  
“I imagine the hunt isn’t much fun if your prey gets eaten before it even gets a chance to play,” Ryou agrees, eyes narrowed. He heads over for the gate, and true to form, it locks from the inside. He opens it without an issue and swings it wide.  
  
“Protects from wildlife, but not much else,” Shiro agrees. “The mesh doesn’t provide any cover, and Xencherak probably has a way to remotely turn off the charge so he doesn’t get hurt, if his victims are still here.”   
  
“Which means we don’t want to be,” Ryou concludes. He frowns. “How long have we been out? He said we get a quintent first, right?”  
  
Shiro points out the countdown, and gestures to the top one. “We do. Looks like we’ve been unconscious for a little over three and a half vargas.” He points at the bottom one. “And this is how long this game lasts, supposedly.”  
  
Ryou frowns. “It was night when we had dinner at Xencherak’s lodge. It’s sunny now. The planet’s day-night cycle is quicker here, but not enough for the sun to rise three hours after dinner. He didn’t just knock us out and dump us in the nearest hunting grounds. He moved us partway around the _planet._ Or maybe even off-world.”  
  
That they’d been so completely defenseless that they could be moved that easily, and they have no idea where they are, is frightening. The rest of the paladins might never be able to find them, assuming they needed a rescue. It’s not a good way to start off this challenge.  
  
Still, as Ryou had said, it is what it is, and now they just have to deal with it. “We’ll start by finding some way to escape,” Shiro decides. “Even if he had to move us off-world, there’ll still be ships we can steal, at least to get back to the Black Lion. For now, we just have to get moving, and put as much distance between this starting point and us as possible.”   
  
“No argument here,” Ryou says. “Let’s move.”  
  
Shiro pauses only long enough to set his helmet to copy both countdowns. A translated version in Earth numbers starts counting down the ticks in the top right corner of his display. “Got our times,” he tells Ryou. “I’ll keep an eye on the clock.”   
  
Ryou nods, and they step out of the protection of the enclosure. From now on, they’re at the mercy of whatever large creatures might wander in this area and prey on humans, and they’re both sharply aware of it. Outside the enclosure is too open, and there’s still a steep cliff at their backs, so they do the only sensible thing they can, and start off at a jog towards the forest. It will provide cover, and more importantly, it will let them disappear, fast. Shiro’s not sure what kind of surveillance Xencherak has set up on the area, but he’s not fool enough to think the hunter isn’t watching their starting point. They need to be long gone sixteen vargas from now.   
  
As the forest gets closer, Shiro starts to realize _why_ he’d thought something was so off with it. It’s not made of trees at all—or at least, not anymore. The trees are thick-limbed things with lots of smaller branches, but made thicker by the layers of sandy-colored stone that appear to have grown over the bark centuries ago.   
  
“Petrified,” Ryou says, staring at the closest trees. “Sort of.”   
  
He’s not wrong. There _had_ been an organic forest here once, Shiro thinks, but now it’s like statues of a thousand trees have been assembled into a forest of stone. Crystal buds sprout higher up on the sturdier branches closer to the sun, like sharp leaves just starting to sprout, sending a cascade of rainbows all over the forest floor as they reflect the sunlight. As they take their first steps into the forest itself, Shiro marvels at the textures; the stone-bark is oddly smooth, polished to perfection by the elements. Little creatures dart through the upper branches, like scaly squirrels with prehensile tails, and as they bounce from branch to branch the crystals sing softly, like wind chimes. Occasionally a loose crystal bud shakes free due to the passage of one of the critters, and crashes to the stone with a tinkle of shattering glass. The entire effect is incredibly unfamiliar and alien, but strangely beautiful in its own way.  
  
A pity they can’t really stop to enjoy it, what with the whole ‘being hunted by a madman’ issue.   
  
Ducking beneath the trees is a relief. It’s hot, wherever they are, and the sun beating down on stone is scorching. The trees provide some measure of shade at least, as long as they duck around the rainbow patches cast by the crystal buds up above, and it’s at least slightly more comfortable. Travel is a little more challenging as they stumble over knobby, petrified roots smoothed into the stone ground, and they’re forced to dodge the occasional loose crystal bud when it shakes free before it crashes onto their heads. It slows their jog to a walk, but as long as they watch their footing and the branches above, they should be fine.   
  
Shiro tries setting his suit to search for lifeforms, but it turns up a hundred alien animals almost immediately, and he shuts it off in disgust. He’s locating every single alien squirrel, bird, and small critter down the food chain that lives in this ecosystem, and it won’t tell him if something big and nasty specifically is coming for them. He tries calling out for help, next, sending a distress signal to the paladins or any neighboring allied planet, but his communications are completely jammed.   
  
“Xencherak’s not stupid,” Shiro says grimly. “He might have left me with my armor, but my communications are blocked. We’re on our own for this.”  
  
“No Lion, either,” Ryou agrees. “Or at least, I can’t feel it. You?”  
  
Shiro shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “He seemed to think hunting with a Lion would be cheating, anyway. Frankly, I’m amazed he left me with the armor at all.”  
  
“He wants to hunt the black paladin,” Ryou says, shrugging. “And he wants a challenge, with you at your best. That means all your armor and everything it can do, except calling for help.” He considers. “Besides, getting it off would be tricky, and it’s not like your pockets are easy to empty.” He gestures to the colored strips on the armor that can be used for storage, with Altean tools at least.  
  
“No.” Shiro frowns. “But you don’t have the same protection. They didn’t loot anything off you, did they? Please tell me they left you your pills, at least.”  
  
Ryou frowns. “I didn’t even think to check.” He digs through his pouches, but each one is empty of the things Ryou habitually keeps on him when going off-world: earpiece communicator, hand-held pocket holopad, a small flask for water—and the travel case with his dormancy medication.   
  
Shiro feels his heart sink at that. Ryou takes his meds once a quintent. If he doesn’t, he runs the risk of beginning to slip back into that degenerative state he’d only just more or less recovered from, when his own failsafe genetics start killing him again. If those are gone, then Ryou has an even harsher time limit than Xencherak’s game allots for.   
  
“Why would they take those?” Shiro hisses, frustrated. “You _need_ those. Why the hell would they…what purpose does that even serve? I get taking the other things, but… _why?”_  
  
“Because Champion doesn’t get anything before he goes into an arena,” Ryou says, oddly calm. “He gets whatever he’s given for a challenge and nothing else, and that’s the selling point. That’s what Xencherak _wants,_ and our escape attempt pretty much convinced him I’m Champion. Besides, they probably thought they were strength or ability enhancements. That’d be cheating, as far as he’s concerned.”  
  
Why the hell is he so damn calm? He’s the one staring his own melting memories and abilities in the face, and he hasn’t even fully recovered from the _first_ time yet.   
  
Ryou must see his worry all too clearly on his face, because his clone says, “Relax, Shiro. I’m not going to die tomorrow, and we both know that. I take the medication daily as a precaution, but both Coran and Slav thought it’d be fine for me to go as long as a movement per dose. You were there for that conversation. If even _Slav_ thinks there’s a low risk of death, it’s probably safe.”  
  
“Maybe,” Shiro says, “But I’d really prefer we didn’t have to test that theory. Slav’s been wrong before.”  
  
“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, but I don’t have them, and there’s no alternative,” Ryou says. “We need to focus on surviving. If we survive, we can get back to the Castle, and there’s more there.”   
  
He pauses, and then adds a little too lightly, “Besides, even if I did start showing symptoms again, it took me almost two months to get _really_ bad. I might slow you down a little, but I won’t hold you back. Or hey, maybe I’ll wander off and get eaten by something, and you won’t have to worry about me at all anymore.”   
  
“Don’t even joke about that,” Shiro snaps. “It’s not fucking funny.”  
  
Ryou raises an eyebrow at Shiro’s vehement response. Shiro surprises himself a little too, if he’s honest. They still share a dark sense of humor, and they’re usually in agreement over what might lighten the mood, to the horror or exasperation of most of the other paladins. But this just… _isn’t_. He can’t think back to a single moment when Ryou had been so completely dependent on him and call it funny. Heartbreaking, painful, but never funny.  
  
Ryou seems to figure out it’s a subject that’s off the table, and raises both hands in a placating gesture. “Relax,” he repeats. “It’s not even going to get that bad. I’m serious. I was functional for a couple movements with no major issues, remember? We didn’t even notice until Chersha. I can stick it out for three quintents.”   
  
“It might be more than that,” Shiro says, ducking around a particularly large specimen of petrified tree. “For all his talk about following rules and not cheating, I don’t expect Xencherak to play fair. He likes being the best too much. Those kills in his gallery—each one was a point of pride to him.”   
  
“I’m not getting mounted on that sick freak’s wall,” Ryou says.   
  
“There wasn’t any evidence of him hunting sentient species in that room,” Shiro says, frowning. “Though I wouldn’t put it past him to have a private trophy room for these hunts.” He shudders despite himself.  
  
“It’s worse than that,” Ryou says. “I researched this guy before getting set on this diplomatic mission. I wanted to know as much as I could about him so I could style talking points towards his interests. I was thorough. I never saw any hints of this kind of thing.”  
  
Shiro catches on immediately. “Which means there’s no evidence to give him away. No survivors to tell the tale.”  
  
“None,” Ryou agrees. “Which means even if somebody does beat him in this game, they don’t get to leave. His promise about letting us go is a lie. He doesn’t want us walking away from this.”   
  
“And he has five quintents to do it,” Shiro adds, as the enormity of the situation presses down on him. “That’s how long the others expect us to be away. They won’t even suspect foul play until then. Even if they come in guns blazing, they won’t be here until six quintents in at least, and they won’t have Voltron at all to assist until Keith can track down the Black Lion.”   
  
“We’re probably supposed to be long dead, by then,” Ryou says softly.  
  
He’s not wrong—but it’s not the first time either of them have beat insurmountable odds. “We are not dying,” Shiro says decisively. “For now we keep moving, but we also take stock of our situation.” He tries to organize his thoughts, and checks the countdown. “In about—sixteen vargas, now—he’ll enter the field, and start hunting us. I don’t have any reason to doubt that part of his rules he’ll keep to. He wants a challenge. Hunting us too early ruins that.”  
  
Ryou nods in agreement. He steps carefully over a tangled mass of petrified, stone-smooth roots, and frowns. “Just hunting, right? This isn’t some… _Battle Royale_ style thing, is it? We don’t have detonation collars, or anything. I don’t see one on you, at least.”   
  
“No.” And thank goodness for that, at least. “Other than removing any supplies they could, and cutting off our communications, it looks like we’ve been left alone.”   
  
“Good,” Ryou says, sharing Shiro’s relief, “Because I’m really not interested in fighting you right now. I’m not even sure how that’d work out in the long run.”   
  
Shiro barely suppresses a shudder at the thought. “I don’t think he’d do that. He seemed more excited when he learned we were…’pack.’ I think he’s more interested in the challenge of hunting a team that works together, not solo prey.”   
  
“Well, at least we got the lunatic that understands the value of good team ethics,” Ryou says dryly. “That just makes me feel so much better.”  
  
Shiro agrees, but is wise enough not to say it. Ryou probably knows it anyway. He has an uncanny habit of knowing how Shiro’s thinking. “We’re sure he’s not going to obey the three-quintent rule,” Shiro continues, “but I doubt he’ll pull out the big guns to silence us until after his game is over, at least. He wants to enjoy this first and foremost.”   
  
“Which means three quintents of wilderness survival in an unknown alien ecosystem that wants to murder us, until a madman decides he’s bored and just murders us outright,” Ryou summarizes bluntly.   
  
“You picked a real bad time to start developing cynicism,” Shiro says. “You do know that, right?”   
  
One of the alien squirrels bounces over them from one stone tree to the next, and several of the crystal buds shake free from the bark. Ryou ducks out of the way as they crash to the red rock ground, hard enough to shatter, right where he’d been standing. He gives Shiro a pointed look, and then says mildly, “I don’t think I’m developing anything. It’s not cynicism so much as saying out loud exactly what you’re already thinking. Minus the restraint that comes out of necessity with being the authority figure.”   
  
“I was not thinking that,” Shiro counters. He was, actually, but he’d never admit to it. Ryou’s knowing look says he’s perfectly aware that’s a lie, but as long as Shiro never admits to it, it’s never official.  
  
“Anyway, we’ve still trained for this,” Shiro continues. “The Garrison had dozens of survival classes and training scenarios. We can do this.”  
  
Ryou raises an eyebrow, and looks around. “You know your memories better than I do, at this point,” he says, “and it’s possible I lost this particular one, but personally I don’t remember the day we went over petrified crystal-death forests.”   
  
“We know enough to improvise,” Shiro says. “I’ll direct if you don’t remember the training yourself. We’ll figure out how to survive—we’ll need water, food, and someplace defensible for shelter so we can rest. We’ll steer clear of the wildlife if at all possible. But I’m more concerned about Xencherak. If we’re sure his three-quintent rule is a lie, then this isn’t a game where we just have to beat the time limit. We need to actively work to escape.”  
  
“Which means knowing the lay of the land,” Ryou says. “Figure out where we are. Where our enemies are. Figure out where the Black Lion is. If we’re close enough we can make for it and escape—even if Xencherak’s using that quintessence blocker thing, if we can get within visual range of the Lion, it’ll jump in to protect you anyway.”  
  
“Or you,” Shiro says.   
  
“It didn’t really like me all that much,” Ryou says. “It mostly put up with me.”  
  
“Still accepted you as its paladin,” Shiro says. “If you’re in visual range and in danger, I’m sure it’ll still jump in to protect you. Didn’t it find you before? Keith mentioned that it was the one to locate you.”  
  
“Yes, but I was dying at the time,” Ryou says. “I mean, I guess I could start doing that again, just to catch it’s attention, but honestly I’d really rather not.”  
  
Shiro can’t help but see Ryou as he was only a few feebs ago, sickly, weak and helpless. He’d been dying then, too, but it’s not something Shiro ever wants to see again. “Yeah. Let’s avoid that.” He sighs. “The problem is if we’re anywhere close to the Black Lion, it’s going to be heavily guarded. Xencherak’s not stupid. He knows it’s the first place we’ll go.”   
  
“The guards we can handle,” Ryou says. “It’s what we do. We can figure out how to steal a pod or a ship too, if we have to. But first we have to find them, and somehow I doubt they’re in this forest.”  
  
“That would be too convenient,” Shiro agrees. He rubs his face with his left hand. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“For…this.” Shiro gestures at the petrified trees around him. “This was your first mission back. It was supposed to be simple. Xencherak was already so eager to join. It wasn’t supposed to go like…well, like this.” Ryou wasn’t even approved for combat yet. He wasn’t _ready_. It was too dangerous. If Shiro had known even for a second this was possible he’d never have agreed to assign Ryou to this. He’d still be on the Castle of Lions where it was safe.  
  
“Yeah, well, no mission we ever take goes well, does it?” Ryou says, surprisingly mild. “And they usually have a frightening tendency to end with being kidnapped by aliens. Honestly, we probably should have expected this.”   
  
Shiro doesn’t say anything.  
  
“Seriously, it’s fine,” Ryou says. “You couldn’t have known this was going to happen. I’ll pull through. We always do, right? We’ll make it.”   
  
“Right,” Shiro agrees. _Get your head on straight. You need to be on your game so you can make sure he_ does _get through this._ “We’ll make it. Starting out with figuring out our surroundings.”   
  
Figuring out where to start is tricky. In the end, Shiro climbs one of the larger crystal trees, using his jetpack for assistance, while Ryou backs as far away as possible to avoid getting a concussion from delicate falling crystal buds. Shiro’s armor protects him from the sharp edges of the crystals, at least, and he’s able to poke his head above the stone-tree canopy. The stone forest seems to go on for miles to the east and north, and to the northwest is the tall cliff face they’d left. But the trees seem to end to the south, and to the southeast he can see some sort of mountain. That’s probably their best bet.  
  
They head off to the south, making their way through the stone forest, occasionally dodging falling crystals when the little reptilian squirrels shake them free. Shiro is glad for the cover of the trees, because even without the shade it’s hot, and Shiro’s already sweating. Ryou, who doesn’t even have the advantage of a temperature-regulating suit and is decked out in all black, looks miserable; his shorter white fringe of hair is plastered to his forehead, and the dust they kick up as they walk is constantly sticking to him. He never complains, although Shiro keeps an eye on him to make sure he’s handling okay.   
  
Perhaps the one blessing is that they don’t leave much of a trail for Xencherak to follow. They kick up dust, but it resettles again almost immediately, and it’s impossible to tell they’ve passed this way. The stone doesn’t leave footprints as they walk, and it’s so hot they can’t even be leaving a heat trail. Even their sweat evaporates quickly from the stone. That had probably been at least half the reason Xencherak had chose the location, for maximum difficulty, but even so Shiro will take any advantage they can get.  
  
By Shiro’s visor count, it takes almost three vargas and nineteen doboshes for them to finally reach the edge of the stone forest. They pause for a breather inside the relative safety of the trees before heading out into the boulder-strewn open grounds on the other side. The stone forest is dangerous, potentially, but it’s a danger they’ve more or less learned to understand. They have no idea what’s out there after this, and no idea what they’ll encounter.  
  
“How’re you holding up?” Shiro asks. He’s worried, but he forces his expression to remain neutral, like he does whenever he’s on missions with the team and needs to believe they can handle this.   
  
“I’m fine,” Ryou says. He looks sticky and uncomfortable from the heat, and he’s sitting on the fallen stone-tree log they stumbled across for the five-dobosh breather they’ve allotted themselves.   
  
“You sure?” Shiro asks. “We’ll need to pick up the pace after this. Do you think you—“  
  
“Shiro,” Ryou interrupts, looking him right in the eye. “Trust me. I’m hot, and this is an awful time by anyone’s definition. But I’m _fine._ I can keep up with you. I’ve got this.”  
  
“Alright,” Shiro agrees. “I just want to be sure. Coran didn’t approve you for fieldwork yet for a reason. Let me know if something’s not right.”  
  
“I will, but I won’t be doing that, because _I am fine,”_ Ryou repeats. “C’mon. I’m all set. Let’s get moving.” He strides off into the open, boulder-strewn valley on the edge of the forest, and Shiro has no choice but to jog after him before they get split up.   
  
He believes Ryou will say something. He really does. But he resolves to keep a careful eye on his clone, just in case. Ryou hadn’t been the one to notice he was sick at first, after all. He might not even realize he’s in trouble. Shiro will keep watch and keep him safe.   
  
They have no real direction other than ‘out of the woods.’ But Ryou keeps heading southwest, sticking close to the border of the stone forest in case they need to duck in for cover, and Shiro sees no reason to contradict him. Another half a varga of travel is spent in relative silence, with the both of them keeping an eye out for potential dangers.  
  
Then they skirt around several stone trees and a number of large boulders, and freeze at the sight.  
  
“Huh,” Ryou says, after a moment. “I don’t think escape is happening in that direction.”  
  
“No,” Shiro agrees quietly. “It isn’t.”  
  
The stone valley sinks down a good ten feet, and at the bottom of the rise, the ocean spreads out before them. It’s more green than blue, but the waves bursting on the rocky beach are just like the ones back on Earth. There’s no sign of land on the horizon anywhere.   
  
Shiro skids down the rise carefully and steps out onto the rocky beach, looking up and down its length to either side. To his right, the stone forest’s trees become stunted and broken as they transition down into the beach boulders and rocks worn smooth by the waves, but the beach itself runs on for miles, until it eventually hits the tall cliff face they’d run from. To his right, the beach continues for even more miles, until it eventually curves around a bend and out of sight.   
  
“This is an _island,”_ Ryou says unexpectedly. He’s leapfrogged carefully down the rise and now crouches on one of the large worn stones, looking up and down the beach as well. “Of course. Xencherak’s not an idiot. Why give your prey a chance to escape when you could just land-lock them?”   
  
Shiro frowns. “Could just be the coastal region of a continent.”  
  
“Maybe,” Ryou says, “But Xencherak’s already proven he thinks ahead on these things. He knows we’ll escape if we can. It’s one of the things that makes Champion famous—he got away. Why risk us escaping and spoiling his fun, when he can just confine us with water?”  
  
“We could swim it,” Shiro says. “He doesn’t know enough about humans to know if we could or not.”   
  
But even as he says it, he knows it’s not an option for them. There’s no land on the horizon, and no place to go. Ryou wouldn’t make it very far at all. Shiro could get farther—even if he couldn’t swim it, he could seal his helmet and walk along the ocean floor, or propel himself with his jetpack—but he’s not about to leave Ryou behind in this. Even if he was, the visor’s readouts indicate the ocean water is actually moderately acidic. The armor would be okay in the short term, but spending hours in the water would almost certainly be a death sentence.   
  
“And go where?” Ryou asks. “We don’t even know where we are. Our entire escape hangs on finding a ship we can steal. Even if we could survive hours of swimming, that’s too big a risk to take.”   
  
Shiro stares over the water, and finally shakes his head. “Back inland, then,” he says, turning on his heel and using his jetpack to throw himself back up the rise. “If we can’t run, we need to get a lay of the land instead. Xencherak already knows what environment we’re playing his game on. We need to reduce that advantage.”  
  
“Need water, too,” Ryou says. He climbs up the rise more carefully. “It’s hot, and we’ve both been sweating. We’ll get dehydrated if we don’t find something soon.”   
  
Shiro nods in agreement, surveying the valley. “The mountain,” he says finally. “If we can get some altitude maybe we see the layout of this place and where resources are. And maybe some good places to lay down an ambush or a trap.”  
  
Ryou raises an eyebrow. “You want to fight him?”  
  
“Not if we can avoid it,” Shiro admits. “My first choice would be to find out where his camp is and steal his ship. But if we can slow him down, maybe we’ll buy ourselves time to do that.”  
  
“Assuming he doesn’t kill us,” Ryou says.   
  
“He’s never fought Voltron paladins before,” Shiro says, more confidently than he feels. “We’ve been though plenty of dangerous situations before and turned them in our favor. If he’s backing us into a corner, he’s going to regret it.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing, but this guy has taken out Galra officers, too,” Ryou says. “And I don’t like them any more than you do, but you don’t get to be a Galra officer by being weak or stupid. We’re talking people like Sendak, here. Take a minute and really think about what kind of crazy bastard would hunt Sendak. For _fun.”_   
  
Shiro’s had the same thought. It’s not a particularly pleasant one. “That’s why we’re avoiding him if we can,” he says. “We don’t go looking for trouble. But we don’t let him kill us if it comes to it, either.”   
  
“That, I can agree with,” Ryou says.  
  
They head back towards the mountain, which looms over them in the distance on the other side of the valley. He uses the term ‘valley’ loosely; it reminds Shiro more of the pictures of the African savannah he’s seen during the dry season. There’s not much in the way of plant life, but occasionally little tufts of grass and stunted bushes manage to squirm their way out of the hard-packed dirt and stone ground. More often it’s studded with boulders and cracked, dried-out dirt surfaces, sometimes with cracks so large Shiro and Ryou actually have to hop over them.   
  
The valley is teeming with life, too; little creatures scramble across their paths constantly. Shiro spots something that looks a bit like a prairie dog (if it had an armadillo’s carapace), another thing about the size of a fox that’s covered in scales and has sharp teeth and long shovel-claws, and a bird creature with four leathery webbed wings and a pencil-thin long beak. He watches one of the alien birds use it’s thin beak to poke into what looks like an alien termite mound, which is the moment Shiro realizes that at least half the boulders in this valley aren’t boulders at all, but hives for some sort of insect colony.  
  
“This place is crazy,” Ryou says, looking around. “There are biologists back on Earth that would commit murder just to see this.”  
  
He’s not wrong. Shiro’s gotten used to the whole concept of alien worlds by now, but he’s always been focused on the sentient parts: the wars, the people they’re saving, the alliances. He’s never even stopped to think about other worldly ecosystems, much less venture into them. If the situation weren’t so dire, this would almost be entertaining.  
  
As it is, it’s hot and uncomfortable. The valley provides no shelter from the sun, and although it’s no longer directly overhead, and the sky is edging towards late afternoon, it’s still hot. Shiro’s mouth feels dry, and he’s starting to get thirsty. But they don’t find water, or at least, nothing they can drink. They stumble across a sunken watering hole in the valley, but the water is the same green-blue as the ocean, and Shiro’s visor tells him it has the same acidic content.   
  
“Don’t drink that,” Shiro says warningly. “Not unless you want your insides to melt.”  
  
“I dodged that bullet once already,” Ryou says. “Rather not risk it again.”   
  
They watch as one of the smaller valley predators slinks across the stone and cautiously eyes them, assessing if they’re a danger. They must pass, because it crouches down at the watering hole, digging its shovel-claws into the stone, and begins to lap at the greenish water. It shows no ill effects from the acidic content.  
  
“Things on this world must have evolved for this,” Shiro says finally, with a sigh.  
  
“Doesn’t say much for us. We need water of the non-acidic variety.” Ryou snorts. “It would be just our luck if Xencherak went through all this effort to make a decent challenge for himself, only to have his prey die of dehydration before he even got to them, because he’s an idiot that didn’t research his biology properly.”  
  
“We’re not dying of dehydration or hunting or anything else,” Shiro says automatically. “We will figure something out.”   
  
But internally he’s starting to worry about exactly the same thing. If there’s no consumable water on the island, they’d be screwed even if they _weren’t_ being hunted by a madman. They need to rehydrate soon, or the elements will kill them before Xencherak ever does.   
  
They pass several more pockmarked watering holes and even one cheerfully running stream as they cross the valley. All of them read as acidic, and Ryou and Shiro are careful to bypass every one as they make for the mountain. Nothing here looks like it would make a good ambush point, or even a decent place to lay a trap; it’s too open, and the boulders don’t provide enough long-term cover to hide.   
  
It gets hotter as they go, even with the sun now so low that night will be falling soon. They have maybe a varga left before that happens, if Shiro is estimating right. On the bright side, a nice breeze has picked up, and even if it’s warm it helps at least a little to combat the gross, sticky feeling both Shiro and Ryou have.  
  
They’re maybe halfway across the valley when all of that changes.  
  
Ryou notices it first. “Shiro,” he mutters slowly, “Where’d all the critters go?”  
  
Shiro looks around, and frowns. While they’ve been walking, this valley has been practically alive with movement. Between the little armored prairie dogs, the occasional small shovel-claw predator, the birds, and the multitude of insects, there’s always something in sight that’s alive. Now that he looks, there’s not a shred of living movement. The scrub brush and small grasses rustle in the strong breeze, but nothing else moves. Even the insects that live in the mounds, odd twelve-legged things with two sets of antennae, no longer crawl over their hives.   
  
Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Something bigger must be hunting here,” he says. “We should keep an eye out.” He’s already trying to scan for lifeforms again, although just as before, it returns such a plethora of life signs it’s almost blinding. The creatures are all still there, but they’ve all retreated into burrows and nests.   
  
“Oh, _hell,”_ Ryou hisses. He grabs Shiro’s arm and turns him around. “Not predators. _Weather.”_  
  
Shiro turns just in time for the strong breeze to turn into a sharper blast of air right in his face. The wind is picking up, and after a moment Shiro can see why. Back the way they came, in the direction of the ocean, a massive storm seems to be brewing. Shiro’s not sure what direction it’s heading in, but the dark clouds on the horizon aren’t his primary concern.  
  
The massive wall of dust and sand roaring in their direction is.  
  
“Dust storm,” Shiro hisses in alarm. Already he’s trying to run through survival training in his head, but the first rule is to get to shelter, and there are no buildings or ships or even tents to hide in out here. The storm is coming up fast—they have maybe doboshes at most—not enough time to make a break for the mountain.   
  
Ryou looks at him in wide-eyed alarm. “I don’t remember the training for this,” he says. “The hell do we do?”  
  
Great. That was bound to happen sooner or later, but…”The boulders,” Shiro says, grabbing Ryou’s wrist with one hand and tugging him towards at a small outcropping not too far distant. They’re real boulders, not the insect colonies. They won’t provide the best protection, but at least they can get behind them to block out the worst of the wind. Already it’s picking up fast.   
  
The first grains of sand and dust are just starting to patter against the stone and Shiro’s armor when they reach the boulders. Both of them crouch down behind it, and when they’re sitting the stone is just barely taller than their heads. “Cover your mouth!” Shiro orders, even as he seals his own helmet against the whipping winds and sand. He has to shout to be heard; already the roaring of the wind and the clatter of sand grains is getting loud enough to tear away his words in midair. “Don’t breathe this stuff!”   
  
Ryou doesn’t argue. The higher collar of his vest comes in handy now; he lifts it and covers his mouth and nose with the fabric, burrowing his face in deep.   
  
The winds are harsher now, and the dust and sand already in the valley is starting to kick up all around them as well as the storm hits them. Within ticks they’re being pelted by sands, and even with the shelter of the boulders protecting them from the wind, it’s awful. The grains ricochet off the stone and pelt the two of them, and even with the protection of his armor Shiro can feel the impacts against the dark under-suit and hear it clattering off his helmet.   
  
Ryou has no such protection, and squeezes his eyes shut hard, doing his best to cover his head with his hands. His Olkari arm seems fine, but his flesh and blood arm is exposed to the elements, and will definitely suffer abrasions from the slicing winds and sand grains before too long.  
  
“Come here!” Shiro yells. He has to lean practically into Ryou’s ear to be heard over the whipping winds, and even through his visor he can barely see Ryou right beside him. “My armor and shields can protect us both!”  
  
Ryou doesn’t protest. He burrows as close to Shiro as he can, keeping his flesh arm sheltered against Shiro’s side and burying his still-wrapped face against the black ‘v’ of the chest armor. Shiro curls around him and wraps both arms over his head and torso to shelter him from the biting sands as much as possible, and then activates both wrist shields. They spring to life and immediately take the brunt of the wind damage, providing at least some shelter for Shiro and Ryou both.   
  
Shiro grits his teeth in determination and bows his head down against the winds and behind his shields, ready to wait out the storm.   
  
On Earth, dust and sand storms will usually blow past in half an hour or so. Wherever they are, the same rule seems to apply. After about twenty doboshes of lashing sand and dust and screaming winds, the storm finally begins to subside. The whipping winds become less violent, and the sand and dust seem less hellbent on trying to erode their boulders—and Shiro and Ryou—away into nothing. Visibility gradually increases, until Shiro can see farther than a few inches in front of his face, and the dust kicked up isn’t hundreds of feet high. The wind grows weaker and the sands swirl in smaller eddies over the plains, and gradually even those slow, until the valley is still once more.  
  
But it’s not until the first little armored prairie dog pokes its snout tentatively out of a burrow twenty feet distant, sniffs the air, and crawls its way free that Shiro finally lowers his guard. The animals had been their first warning—if they’re out now, the danger is likely past. He finally drops the shields and uncurls from around Ryou, nudging his shoulder gently. “Think the worst is over.”  
  
Ryou finally uncurls as well, coughing slightly as he pulls his vest down off of his nose and mouth and sends a small cloud of dust airborne. He’s covered in a light coating of reddish dust and sand, and his hair is now more red than white, black or gray. “That was not fun,” he rasps, and his voice sounds hoarse.  
  
Shiro frowns. “You okay?” He shifts position to crouch next to Ryou, dislodging a small cloud of dust off of himself as well.   
  
“Throat’s dry,” Ryou says. “Could use some water. A little scratched up from the sand, but I’ll live. The shields helped.” He uses one of the boulders to lever himself to his feet, and Shiro takes the cue to stand as well. “That definitely explains how the stone trees got so smooth at least. If they get hit by storms like that constantly, no wonder all their rough edges get polished out.”   
  
“Maybe, but that just means these happen more often than not, and we don’t have time for that,” Shiro says grimly. “That wasted a lot of time. The sun’s going to set, soon.”  
  
“And then we’ll be out in the dark in literally alien territory,” Ryou catches on, sobering. “And I don’t want to get caught by one of those things in the dark.”   
  
“It’s worse than that,” Shiro says. “There’s only eleven vargas to go before Xencherak takes the field. We still need to find water, and after that we’re going to need to find someplace to rest safely.”   
  
Ryou shakes the dust and sandy grit out of his hair again, coughing slightly on the cloud that forms. “Then we’d better get moving.”   
  
Shiro nods. “Towards the mountain, still. There’s not enough shelter out here if we need it.” Certainly it was no safe place for them to remain in the event of another storm like that.   
  
They head off for the mountain as quickly as they can. They’re both worn down after the storm, and still hot and thirsty, but they set a strong pace regardless. Being out here is dangerous, and they both know it. Shiro doesn’t relish the thought of getting caught in another of those storms, or being trapped out here at night.   
  
But he worries even more for Ryou, whose coughs become more common as they travel. He might have breathed in some of the dust. Not for the first time that day, Shiro regrets having ever sent him on this mission. He can only hope they make it somewhere safe so they can rest, and maybe find some water.  
  
Their luck, unsurprisingly, is as terrible as always. Two more of the sand storms whip up before they make it to the mountain, and both times they’re caught in the teeth of it. They’re able to catch the warning signs faster for those storms—the absent critters and the sudden strong breeze—but even so they barely manage to duck down behind shelter before the storm starts to rage around them. Like before, Ryou buries himself against Shiro’s side and covers his nose and mouth with his shirt, while Shiro curls around him as much as he can and shields them both. But even so, by the end of the venture they’re both dusty and uncomfortable, and Shiro feels completely dried out. His armor has gone from black and white to black and rusty red, and Ryou’s given up on trying to brush the dust out of his clothing.   
  
It only collectively takes them maybe half a varga to cross the remainder of the valley, but it’s closer to one and a half by the time they make it to the mountain, and the sun has long since set. Most of the critters they’re familiar with have vanished. There are new things emerging in the dark, nocturnal creatures that he’s able to see with his helmet’s visor adjusted to a night vision mode, but for Ryou it has to be almost pitch black. There are no electric lights or street lamps out here in the wilderness, and no visible moons to light their path. All they have is a black sky full of alien constellations, and the teal lighting the paladin armor emits.  
  
Shiro obligingly clicks on the flashlight in his gauntlet after the second time Ryou stumbles over a rock. “Better?”  
  
“Yes, but that thing’s a beacon right to us out here,” Ryou says.  
  
“Still nine and a half vargas before Xencherak takes the field,” Shiro says. “I’d rather you not break your neck _now.”_   
  
“Fair enough,” Ryou agrees.  
  
“This way,” Shiro says. “I see something we can use as a trail. Elevation might help, but it might be a bit of a climb. How you holding up?”  
  
“Fine,” Ryou says, a little shortly. “Just like I’ve been fine the last three times you asked.”  
  
“Hey, just making sure,” Shiro says. “You don’t have any armor, and this hasn’t been easy even with it. I don’t want you to push yourself too hard.”  
  
“I don't know if you’ve noticed,” Ryou says, in a mild tone that doesn’t match his exasperated, tired expression at all, “but this isn’t Gladiator training on the Castle. This is real. I don’t really have a choice but to push too hard. How are _you_ doing?”  
  
Shiro blinks at that. “I’m fine.” He’s thirsty, sore, and a disgusting combination of sticky from sweat and gritty from dust, but he’s lived through worse. He remembers that much.   
  
“You’re lying,” Ryou says, without hesitation. “You want a drink just as bad as I do, and you want about six showers and the chance to sleep for a week. And no crazy guy after us. But you’re dealing with it, so you’re ‘fine.’ I’m ‘fine,’ too. So now that we’ve established we’re both fine, can we move before something eats us?”  
  
Shiro blinks again at the uncharacteristic crabbiness from his clone. He barely bites off a worried _are you okay?_ before they start running in circles, and shrugs instead. “Okay. This way, then,” he says, leading the way slowly and cautiously for Ryou’s sake up what seems to be an animal trail.  
  
He does resolve to keep a sharp eye out on how Ryou is _really_ doing, though. He’d all but admitted to lying about how he feels. It’s a thing Shiro does, too. The last thing Shiro wants is for Ryou to push himself so hard he can’t keep going. Not when he isn’t even suppose to be here to begin with.  
  
Ryou isn’t wrong about one thing, though. They do definitely need to get moving before something decides they’re dinner, and they are both incredibly thirsty. So Shiro keeps an eye out for any place they can take shelter in the dark—and after twenty five doboshes and a significant climb up the mountain, they hit their first bit of luck. There’s a crevice in the mountainside wide enough for maybe three adult men to stand shoulder to shoulder, and it plunges deep into the stone.  
  
“Cave ahead,” Shiro says. “Could give us some shelter.”  
  
“Could also be sheltering something else,” Ryou points out.  
  
He’s not wrong. On Earth, a place like this might already be staked out by any number of animals, large or small. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up, not when they need the shelter. Shiro cautiously approaches, and tries scanning for lifeforms again. There’s dozens in the cave alone, but nothing huge. “Suit’s not picking anything up,” he says. “If it does belong to something, that something is already out for the night.”   
  
Ryou opens his mouth to speak, but the blast of wind that hits them interrupts him. Shiro turns, and with his helmet’s night vision he can already see the storm building over the ocean and the beginnings of the massive wall of sand and dust starting to form at the edge of the island.   
  
“Forget my objections,” Ryou says. “Any port in a storm. Or cave, as the case might be.”  
  
They both duck inside, cautious and wary. Shiro sweeps the flashlight on his gauntlet around, but nothing launches out of the dark to attack them, and the beam doesn’t illuminate anything immediately dangerous. It’s not even completely dark in here—there’s some sort of bioluminescent moss growing on the walls and ceiling, which are slightly damp, and it’s enough to cast a soft green glow to see by. It’s decently large, once they get far enough in—not big enough to fit even the smallest of the Lions, but enough to store a few of the Altean pods, maybe. There are critters—odd fuzzy things that look like a cross between a mole and a bat, with large webbed shovel-claws, that burrow into the walls and don’t seem particularly concerned with their presence. They’re only the size of Shiro’s hand, and there’s nothing bigger in here with them. But the most important discovery of all is—  
  
“Water,” Ryou says, eyes lighting up.   
  
Shiro sweeps his flashlight around once more before clicking it off, and focusing on the water in question. There’s a little natural basin in the center of the cave, maybe about the size of two of the paladins’ rooms on the Castle of Lions, and it’s filled with water. It looks a little murky in the soft green lighting of the cave, but they can’t exactly afford to be picky.  
  
“I’m not picking up any toxicity readings,” Shiro says, scanning the water with his helmet. “It should be safe to drink.” He takes several steps forward, relieved and feeling the burn of his dry throat now worse than ever, before he realizes Ryou isn’t right behind him.  
  
He looks over his shoulder in surprise. Ryou is still standing farther back, watching in the dim green glow of the bioluminescent moss, but he hasn’t made an attempt to slake his thirst yet.   
  
“You’ve got to be even thirstier than I am,” Shiro says, frowning. “You’ve been exposed to all the storms and the dust more than me. Come take a drink—it’ll be good for your throat. You’ve been coughing a lot.”   
  
“Sounds great,” Ryou says. His voice is hoarse and his throat sounds dry, confirming Shiro’s suspicions. “But I think I’ll wait back here for a dobosh or two. The last time I stuck my face in a watering hole when I was dying of thirst, a giant tentacle crab came out and tried to eat me.”   
  
Shiro raises an eyebrow at that. “Okay, fair enough,” he agrees. Then he frowns. “Wait. So then you were just going to let _me_ get eaten by the theoretical giant tentacle crab instead?”   
  
“I mean, if we’re alternating on terrible injuries, which is only fair, then you’re up to plate,” Ryou says reasonably. “I’ve done my turn and then some.”  
  
Had he ever. Unbidden, Shiro thinks once again of how helpless Ryou had been just a few months ago. Even so, he shakes his head in exasperation. “I’m pretty sure the universe doesn’t work on some weird alternating equality system. Right _now_ , we need the water.”   
  
"I'm just saying. We almost get eaten a lot, and things that will eat Shiroganes come out of water sometimes."  
  
“We’ll compromise,” Shiro decides, mostly because he’s thirsty as hell and continuing to have this conversation is just aggravating his throat more. “I'll go close and check the water. If anything wants to eat a Shirogane, it'll come after me. Then you shoot the hell out of it from a distance.”  
  
“I can do that,” Ryou agrees, bringing his right fist forward. “I’ll do my best to not let you get eaten.”  
  
Shiro rolls his eyes.  
  
Nothing comes out of the water when he sticks his hands in it, and uses the sample cupped in his palms to do a more in-depth scan on its contents. Nothing comes out when he deems it still safe to drink, either, or when he’s actually drinking. The water tastes a little gross—slightly bitter, and gritty from cave minerals—but it’s water, and for now that’s all that matters. Shiro gets his fill, relieved at how much better he feels, and then switches off with Ryou to keep watch while his clone drinks. Ryou, once assured nothing is about to burst out of the pool to eat them, sticks his entire face in the water with such desperate relief that it’s only then Shiro realizes just how thirsty he’d been.  
  
The latest sandstorm is fully raging outside by the time they’ve both drunk their fill. The entrance crevice is a little dangerous, with some of the sand being whipped in, and howling winds threatening to knock a person down the steep incline they’d just climbed. But the cave is deep enough that they can settle back near the watering hole and rest comfortably without any threats from the storm, at least.  
  
“These have been going off and on for vargas,” Ryou says. “I don’t think they’re slowing down at all tonight. There’s no way we can keep traveling in the dark, with those popping up constantly.”  
  
“Agreed,” Shiro says tiredly. “I think we’re stuck here for the duration. But at least we have shelter, and water.” No food, still, but humans could survive much longer without that than water.   
  
“Xencherak probably can’t travel in this, either,” Ryou adds. “As long as the storm is up, we’re probably safe.”   
  
“We’re also trapped,” Shiro says, “And it won’t let us prepare any traps or survey the land. But at least it will buy us a few hours to rest.” Because now that they’ve stopped moving, and they’re not in _immediate_ danger from the storms, he realizes he’s exhausted. They’ve been traveling for vargas nonstop in this harsh alien environment, and he’s starting to feel it. And if _he’s_ feeling it, Ryou has to be so much worse. Shiro’s at least been on recent field missions. Ryou shouldn’t be dealing with this at all.   
  
“Rest sounds good,” Ryou admits. He sounds a little relieved. “If we can’t prep for his attack, we can at least make sure we’re as ready for it as possible. Here—you rest first, but give me your helmet so I can keep an eye on the timing. I’ll wake you after a couple vargas and we’ll swap off. That way we can keep watch in case something goes wrong.”   
  
Shiro frowns. “You should probably rest first—“  
  
“You’ve been doing more than me,” Ryou counters, mildly exasperated. “Look, Shiro, you’re the one with the armor and the most artillery here. We need you in top shape so we both live through this. If something _does_ go wrong two vargas from now—say, there’s a break in the storm, and the giant eldritch-horror predator that lives in this cave comes back and finds intruders—I’d prefer _you_ be at the top of your game more than me, so we can handle it.”   
  
“I…” Shiro presses his lips together in a thin line. It’s not a bad argument. It’s pure practicality, and probably the call Shiro would make in any other circumstance. It’s why Ryou’s using the argument. They think the same way, still, and Ryou knows it’ll work.  
  
But even so, it bothers Shiro to be the one getting first rest when he _knows_ Ryou isn’t as strong as he is right now. Ryou needs all his strength to live through this, too. It doesn’t seem right.   
  
_Think about what’s needed for this as a mission,_ Shiro chides himself. “Okay,” he agrees, taking off his helm. “There’s about eight and a half vargas left until Xencherak hits the field. If the storms let us out before then, we should probably move. Wake me after about two vargas. We’ll see what happens from there.”  
  
“Got it,” Ryou agrees, taking the helmet. He settles in by a crevice where he can see the entrance—and the still raging storm—while still sheltering from it. Shiro curls up farther back on the stone, closer to the water, and tries hard not to think about what the next few quintents will bring.   
  
The stone is uncomfortable, and Shiro almost doesn’t expect to fall asleep easily. But he’s more exhausted than he realizes, and he’s slipping into uneasy dreams before five doboshes pass.


	3. The Second Quintent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the longest chapter, haha.

Ryou wakes with a soft groan when he feels someone shaking his shoulder. He’s tired, damn it, and whatever he’s sleeping on is hard and uncomfortable, but at least it had been _sleep._  
  
“C’mon, Ryou,” the person shaking his shoulder says. “Get up. It’s go time. We hit the end of our first quintent. Xencherak’s in the field.”  
  
That’s enough to snap Ryou awake immediately, as the last vestiges of sleepiness abandon him. He opens his eyes and finds Shiro crouching over him, once again wearing full armor and helmet.  
  
“Already?” Ryou hisses, pushing himself up into a sit. His whole body feels sore, probably from sleeping on rock after eight hours of non-stop hiking in a brutal alien environment, but he does his best to ignore it; there’s nothing he can do about that. The rumbling in his stomach is harder to ignore, but he’s had practice with that too, and does his best to push it aside. “Did the storms let up at all?”  
  
“Not really.” Shiro stands up, and offers Ryou his hand to pull him to his feet. Ryou accepts it for now, and hauls himself upright. “It’s quieted down for the past varga or so, though. It rained maybe three quarters of a varga ago, for about twenty doboshes, and all the sand and dust has been soaked. I think they might be done for the night.”  
  
Ryou glances at the entrance to the cave. He can just see the first, faintest traces of light outside, as the black, star-studded sky starts to turn blue. The sun will be rising soon. “They went all night?”  
  
“I guess.” Shiro sighs. “So much for preparing. Xencherak probably knows this mountain has water that’s not toxic to humans. If he’s smart, this cave—and any others like it—will be the first place he checks. We need to be long gone by then.”  
  
“Need to find his camp, anyway,” Ryou agrees. “If he’s here, he had to have a way to get here. Whatever the transport is, we can steal it.”  
  
“If we can find where he started,” Shiro agrees. “Get your fill of water for now. Who knows when we’ll get more. Then we’ll move out.”  
  
It’s a sensible suggestion, although the worried look Shiro gives him when he makes it is irritating. Ryou’s pretty sure that Shiro _thinks_ he’s concealing his concern, but Ryou’s not stupid, and he’s not blind. Shiro’s spending so much time burning his thoughts over making sure Ryou is okay in all of this, he’s not sparing anything for himself, or the fight. He’ll need to get his head in the game if they’re going to live through this.  
  
Still, for how his suggestion isn’t a bad one. Ryou slakes his thirst at the watering hole. A bellyful of mineral water doesn’t do much for his rumbling stomach, but he at least has the illusion of fullness to help for a little while.  
  
“I figure we head farther up the mountain,” Shiro says, when Ryou finally rejoins him at the entrance. “We might be able to get a better understanding of the surrounding land, and scout possible locations where Xencherak’s transport might be. Or at the very least, we can find other places we can hole up for the next five quintents. If we can’t escape, we have to last long enough for the others to get here.”  
  
“Sounds as good as any other plan,” Ryou agrees. “Let’s go.”  
  
He starts to take a step forward, but Shiro puts a hand on his shoulder—the left hand, Ryou notes idly. For the past few months Shiro’s always been cautious about touching him with his Galra hand, other than in sparring. Ryou’s never quite figured out why. If anyone is likely to be afraid of it, it certainly wouldn’t be Ryou, who’s been attached to it himself. “Hey,” he says. “Look, before we go, how are you holding up?”  
  
Ugh. This again? “I’m fine,” Ryou says, as patiently as he can, but he’s sure some of his irritation makes it into his words and his face. “Just like I was fine yesterday.”  
  
“I just want to be sure—“  
  
“Shiro,” he cuts him off, more audibly exasperated now, “I’m not a delicate flower, here. I’m _you_. Well, sort of. If you can pull through this—and you _are_ —then so can I.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean you should have to,” Shiro grumbles. “Okay. Just…promise me you’ll let me know, if you need help.”  
  
“I will,” Ryou agrees. “Just like I said I would yesterday.”  
  
It’s a half truth. The fact of the matter is, he _is_ struggling with this, probably more than he should. There had been a reason Coran hadn’t approved him for field work yet. He’s getting stronger, and he can hold his own in sparring matches against Shiro, Keith, and Allura for short periods of time, and even help in lower-level Gladiator team matches. But his endurance isn’t up to Shiro’s levels yet, and neither are his muscles or his weight. He could probably handle short missions, if he’s honest with himself, but there’s never a way to guarantee that a mission will stay short, and he’s not ready for the long hauls yet.  
  
Which this, unfortunately, is. And he’s been feeling it. He’s pushing himself to his limit, and he’s managing, but he’s sure it’s going to cost him later. Whether it results in an injury from pushing too hard too fast and for too long, or setting himself back on his weight gain and muscle training after five quintents of starving while doing high-intensity survival hiking, or even just running out of stamina at the wrong moment, is anyone’s guess. And that’s not taking into account the time bomb coded into his genetics that may or may not already be reducing his chances. Or the very real possibility of being murdered by a lunatic that enjoys hunting sentient beings for sport. All in all, Ryou’s odds of surviving that on his own are definitely lower than he’d like.  
  
So he gets why Shiro’s worried. He understands the situation is not ideal, and that he shouldn’t be here. But they don’t have a choice in the matter. He’s here. He _has_ to push himself to survive, and if it comes down to injuring himself just to ensure he lives, it’s a trade he’ll make and gladly. Shiro’s incessant worrying isn’t helping matters any, but it is getting annoying. So if Ryou is in a life or death situation, or finds himself bordering on the verge of collapse, he’ll say so. Anything else, he’s keeping to himself. They really can’t afford anything less.  
  
Shiro doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t press Ryou on it, for which Ryou is grateful. If either of them are trying, they can uncover the other’s lies fairly quickly; they know their own minds too well to avoid it. But Shiro is sufficiently distracted enough by the situation that Ryou has a little wiggle room with his half-truths.  
  
“Okay,” Shiro says. “Then let’s go.”  
  
Ryou hadn’t had a chance to see much of the mountain last night, mostly because it had been pitch black, and he’d been focusing on following Shiro and not breaking his own neck in the process. Now the dark blue sky has lightened still further as the sun starts to rise, and there’s a pale streak of red and orange on the horizon, enough to see the mountain bursting into life.  
  
If the valley and crystal forest ecosystems had been wildly alien and yet strangely intriguing, the mountain is just an extension of that, with a whole new host of things to see. The ground is oddly pockmarked in places that don’t have as much dust and sand, and Ryou points it out to Shiro fairly quickly.  
  
“The rain, I think,” Shiro says. “It also read as acidic. Same stuff as down in the valley I guess. The dust and sand must protect everything—like an extra layer over the ground.”  
  
It’s not a bad guess, and Ryou’s sure the sandstorms will buff out any of those pockmarks fairly quickly, the next time they hit. But the rain seems to have an interesting effect on the rest of the environment. The mountain itself is full of deep slopes and craggy outcroppings and massive boulders studded everywhere, and everything is the same red and brown and gold hues as far as the eye can see. Everywhere except on the ground, where there are dozens of cracks and divots in the stone, out of which bright-colored crystal buds are growing. Ryou doesn’t remember seeing bright flashes of blue, red, green and purple glittering in Shiro’s flashlight beam last night, which means these things sprouted up overnight or with the rain, like mushrooms back on Earth.  
  
“It’s like on the Balmera,” Shiro says, observing a string of crystals. “They don’t grow quite as fast, though.”  
  
Ryou has no memory of the Balmera incident other than a few minor bits and pieces. Most of his understanding of it comes via the paladins discussing or rehashing the story. He knows enough to know the basics of what happened, but it’s like hearing a story from someone else. He doesn’t mention that now, though. He’s recovered plenty of Shiro’s memories, and some of his own, but admitting others were lost is always embarrassing. He merely grunts in acknowledgement, and hopes Shiro doesn’t push for an actual conversation.  
  
Shiro doesn’t, for which Ryou is grateful. It lets him get back to studying their surroundings without having to stew in his own embarrassing brain failures for long.  
  
The crystals are certainly pretty, whether or not they look Balmeran, but they also seem to have another function. Little creatures that hop like rabbits and are about the same size appear from between the rocks and bounce over to the crystals to feed. They sit back on their long rear legs and keep their equally long, scaly ears held high and swiveling, as they spit something on their crystal of choice that hisses, and then begin to gnaw on the resulting softened mess.  
  
Occasionally something the size of a large coyote, but built more like a cross between an iguana and a hyena, leaps out of the rocks and snatches up one of the little crystal-eaters in its odd horizontal jaws. They never stay long, and dart away at lightning speed once they’ve caught their breakfast. It’s hard to get a good look at them because of it, but once Ryou and Shiro come across one of the strange scaled hyenas on their path. While it’s large enough to potentially be a threat, it only hisses at them warningly and backs away. The meaning is clear—leave me alone, and I’ll do the same—and they move on without pursuit.  
  
Sadly, none of the things look as though they’d make for particularly good eating. The lizard-yena might be a bit of a challenge to bring down, with its size and scales and clear intention to fight to defend itself. And while the crystal eaters are large enough to make a decent meal, Ryou’s not so sure anything with acidic crystal-dissolving saliva would make for safe eating without knowing how to properly prepare it. They let the critters live.  
  
“I’m not seeing any signs of other places to hole up, so far,” Shiro says. While Ryou’s been watching the environment, Shiro’s kept his eyes on the horizon and what they can see of the island below them. The higher they climb, the more becomes visible, far down and distant though it is. It’s definitely clear by now that they’re on an island, for all the good that knowledge does them. “Or any place Xencherak might have dropped a transport or a camp. He might have a hidden starting point.”  
  
“He got us to that starting cage easy enough,” Ryou says. “There wasn’t much space to land a ship there. He might have a main ship for actual transport for all his gear, and a smaller shuttle just to move his victims into position.”  
  
“That just makes it harder to determine what we’re looking for,” Shiro says with a sigh. “If we’re not even sure what size vehicle we’re looking for or what he’s using—“  
  
One of the crystal-bud fissures moves suddenly as Shiro steps over it, snapping up and wrapping around his left leg. Ryou has barely a tick to realize that it’s not a fissure at all, but some kind of imitation cable, before Shiro’s feet are jerked out from underneath him and he hits the stone with a yelp. The cable tugs, and suddenly Shiro’s dragged away between the massive stones at a frankly alarming pace.  
  
_“Shiro!”_ Ryou yells, before bolting after him.  
  
Hitting the ground so hard and so suddenly must have stunned him, but Shiro regains his wits remarkably fast. His right hand glows to life and he claws out at the nearest boulder as he’s dragged past it. His burning fingers dig into the stone, and it melts with a hiss as he drags finger-wide scores into its surface, but it does slow him down fractionally. The cable around his leg goes taught with tension as Shiro provides resistance, and tugs insistently a second later. Shiro gasps in pain, but holds onto the stone resolutely. Even if he’s still being dragged slowly and inevitably away, he keeps fighting for a few extra ticks.  
  
A few extra ticks are all Ryou needs, fortunately. He gets close enough to get a decent view of the cable still wrapped tightly around Shiro’s leg, and raises his right fist. It’s already powering up, leaf-vein patterns glowing pale green as they rush up from his fingertips to his elbow, and it gathers power as he aims. The blast is quick but still powerful, and hits dead on, just a few inches past Shiro’s foot.  
  
The cable breaks immediately, but not like any kind of synthetic fiber Ryou’s ever seen. Instead it bursts in a glob of reddish-purple, and to Ryou’s alarm, something not as far away as he’d like _shrieks._ The end of the cable—which is definitely not a cable, Ryou is starting to realize—vanishes around the edge of one massive boulder, still trailing what he’s now pretty sure is blood.  
  
And then something comes rampaging around the stone, still roaring and shrieking in rage and pain.  
  
For one bewildering moment, Ryou is almost certain one of the other boulders decided to just pick itself up and move. Then he realizes it’s a creature, and what’s more, he recognizes it from Xencherak’s hunting gallery.  
  
It’s built like a cross between a cat and a bull, with a sturdy head, neck and shoulders, but six slim, muscular and graceful legs, each ending in four wickedly tipped claws. It has a wide mouth full of thick, sharp teeth, and two lashing lizard tails. The entire thing is larger than a buffalo, and that alone would make it a nasty contender as a predator on Earth. But as if that’s not enough, its entire body is covered in a thick carapace that’s coated in reddish-brown dust, making it essentially decked out in its own camouflaged armor. The end of the cable hangs out of its mouth, dripping blood, and Ryou realizes it’s some sort of tongue. Even at this distance he can still see how strongly it resembles the crystal fissures, studded with colored thorny points.  
  
“That is _not_ a trap of Xencherak’s,” Ryou says, wide-eyed. “That is _definitely_ something that just tried to eat you.”  
  
“Story of my life,” Shiro says with a gasp, winded from the attack. The severed end of the tongue is still wrapped around his leg, but the thorny protrusions are making it difficult for him to just shove off. He pulls at it all the same, trying to free himself.  
  
The massive predator shrieks in pain and rage again, and charges. It smashes clear through one of the smaller, man-sized boulders, sending stony shrapnel everywhere, and Ryou throws up his Olkari arm to shield his head. He feels some of the impacts against the metal arm in a distant sort of way thanks to the synthetic nerves Ryner had designed.  
  
Then he drops his arm just in time to see the wide mouth of the creature, and all its shining sharp teeth, open and coming straight for him.  
  
_“No!”_ Shiro snarls. He’s still on the ground and still tangled up in the remnants of the tongue, but he manages to kick himself forward off of a boulder and half-stumble, half-throw himself at the creature. His glowing right hand reaches out and manages to snag the predator’s back right ankle, and he tugs with everything he has.  
  
It’s not quite enough to slow the creature, and it’s too big for Shiro to be able to drag it back at all. But his superheated hand causes the creature to shriek in pain again as Shiro’s fingers burn deep scars into its foot, and its head jerks back in agonized surprise. Its jaws snap shut mere inches from Ryou’s face. He can feel its hot breath, and nearly gags on the smell.  
  
The creature turns its massive head to try and stare at its own back leg. Shiro hangs on gamely, digging his fingers in deeper. The creature shrieks again, and thrashes its wounded leg, kicking out to try and shake off the irritant hurting it.  
  
Shiro yelps as he’s finally dislodged, and sent flying. He cracks against another boulder ten feet distant and slides down it until he’s slumped in an awkward sit on the ground. Even from here, Ryou can see the four gouge-marks in the paladin chest armor from the creature’s claws, scoring the black ‘v’ deeply.  
  
The predator snarls, and abandons Ryou completely, heading for its assailant. Shiro struggles to rise, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, but the throw had clearly stunned him.  
  
_“Hey!”_ Ryou yells, and shoots the thing twice with his Olkari arm.  
  
It’s not as effective as he’d like. The two pale green blasts dig scores in the creature’s carapace armor, but it doesn’t seem to hurt them any. The armor must be too thick, and not have any nerve endings. Ryou will have to charge a stronger blast to make any headway, but he doesn’t have time to wait around for that.  
  
But the creature does pause at the impacts. Even if it doesn’t feel pain from them, it can apparently feel the force from them, and it certainly heard Ryou’s shout. It hesitates, uncertain of which Shirogane to attack. Clearly, this is a creature used to being on top of the food chain, and isn’t all that used to being challenged by its breakfast.  
  
It’s enough time for Shiro to react. He manages to stagger to his feet, and makes an awkward run for the nearest boulder, stumbling over the tail still wrapped around his leg. His movement is enough to make the creature react, and it lumbers after him, snapping its wide jaws as it tries to catch its fleeing prey. Shiro takes advantage of the attack, and when its head is low enough, he manages to leap on top of its neck, clinging to the carapace for dear life.  
  
Not a bad move, really. Ryou’d done it himself. It can’t eat you if it can’t reach you.  
  
The creature shrieks in outrage, and turns in an awkward circle, trying to reach the thing clinging to its thick neck and shoulders. It tries to raise its front claws to scratch at Shiro, but its thick armor plating doesn’t give it enough flexibility to reach. It howls, and starts to rock and thrash, trying to shake him off.  
  
Shiro hangs on gamely like he’s at a rodeo. His Galra fingers light up again, and he tries to slam them into the creature’s neck. It’s still difficult, with so much natural armor plating, but Shiro’s Galra arm is made for fine cutting, and he’s making more progress digging through the armor than Ryou’s blasts had. If he can just find a chink in the armor, he might be able to reach its vulnerable organs beneath.  
  
Then the predator snarls, and sways side to side. In a sudden moment of clarity, Ryou realizes it's going to roll. And Shiro’s durable, but not even he’s going to live through something that big and that armored literally steamrolling him.  
  
“Get off! Look out!” Ryou orders. And even as he does, he takes aim, hoping to distract the beast, and fires at its head.  
  
It’s simultaneously the luckiest and most unlucky shots he’s ever made. It hits the creature square in the eye, one of the few places on the creature that looks completely vulnerable. The creature screams in pain once more, and abandons the attempt to roll on its back. But it thrashes wildly in agony, half rearing up on its back legs as it reacts, and Shiro is finally flung from the creature’s neck.  
  
He hits the ground hard, but turns his momentum into a safety roll. But he’s only just starting to stagger to his feet, tripping over the thorny tail still dug into his leg and armor, when the creature’s thrashing tails hit him. Shiro yells as he’s flung twenty feet and hits the stone hard, rolling towards the edge of one of the mountain’s many, many steep slopes.  
  
“No!” Ryou yells.  
  
Shiro scrabbles frantically for purchase. He digs his Galra hand into the stone again and manages to slow his momentum before he goes flying off the edge. But he hangs awkwardly off the side, and sends numerous stones scattering down below him. He gasps as he drags himself forward, and then glances up to check the progress of the fight.  
  
His eyes go wide. “Look out!”  
  
Ryou turns just in time to find the creature charging at him.  
  
He tries to hurl himself out of the way, but the predator is mad with pain now, and lightning fast. It clips him in the side as he dodges with its thick armored plates, and Ryou spins as he hits the ground, rolling on the stone. Before he can haul himself to his feet the creature is on him, snarling and drooling saliva and blood as its teeth flash for his head.  
  
He throws up his arm instinctively to block. The creature’s teeth fasten around his Olkari arm, digging deep scores and divots into the metal and synthetic muscles.  
  
Ryou _screams._  
  
He loves his Olkari arm. It’s a wonder of technology, never a replacement for a real arm, but replicating a human limb enough that he doesn’t look at it and hate its very existence. It functions like a real hand, and even feels stronger textures, or heat and cold.  
  
It feels pain, too.  
  
Ryner had warned him it could happen, but he’s never encountered it until this very moment, and suddenly he regrets ever having this arm. He doesn’t bleed, but he _feels_ the way the teeth grind into and through the metal casing and synthetic muscle, and his artificial fingers spasm in reaction. The creature may as well be sawing its teeth into his left arm, and every fiber of his being is in agony.  
  
_“Ryou! No, no—Ryou!”_  
  
Shiro’s voice snaps him back into focus. The creature is still gnawing on his arm, growling in its throat as it struggles to bite through a much tougher material than it seems used to. Ryou’s arm is still _metal_ , after all, no matter how much it replicates a human arm. It claws at the dust and stone on either side of Ryou’s body in frustration, hungry and desperate to feed. Ryou’s vision is taken up entirely by drooling jaws and massive fangs, and he blearily recalls being here before, pressed back against the dirt while a massive creature holds him down and salivates in his face.  
  
“Not this again,” he mutters, in a haze of pain.  
  
Except this time is _different._ This time he _has_ his arm at the ready, not held down. This time it’s not completely useless if it can’t reach its target.  
  
And, this time it’s already inside the creature’s mouth, pointed right at its slimy, soft-looking insides.  
  
Concentrating is hard, especially when the creature snarls in his face again and tugs insistently at his arm. That sends a new wave of agony through Ryou, and the little glimmer of pale green that had started to grow at his fingertips immediately vanishes. But he forces himself to focus—if he doesn’t focus he’ll die—and the green lines swarm up his arm as the power gathers in his palm.  
  
He fires, straight down the creature’s throat.  
  
The predator _howls._ It releases Ryou’s arm immediately and backpedals, shrieking endlessly. It screams and staggers away drunkenly, tails thrashing and claws slicing up the stone in its death throes. It takes almost a full dobosh for it to die, but it finally, _finally_ , collapses over on its side and goes still. Ryou can feel the _thud_ it makes reverberate through the stone beneath him when it finally falls.  
  
Ryou moans, and curls over on his left side, clutching his Olkari arm close against his chest.  
  
_“Ryou!”_  
  
Shiro crashes down on his knees next to Ryou, panting hard. He’s not even trying to disguise his concern now, and his expression is near frantic. “Please tell me you’re okay, please—“  
  
“I’ll live,” Ryou groans. “At the moment I wish I wouldn’t.”  
  
“Don’t even joke about that,” Shiro hisses, but there’s relief in his admonishment all the same. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Mostly arm,” Ryou says, wincing. The rest of him feels awful too—bruised where the creature hit him, mostly—but his arm is definitely the worst. Now that the creature isn’t actively gnawing on the metal, the pain has diminished significantly at least. Ryner’s synthetic nerves are more for letting the user interact with the world, not for notifying someone that they’re hurting and need to address it immediately, and that means they’re only really active when touching something. But pressing near the damaged points still causes residual pain, and frankly Ryou could live without that for the rest of his life.  
  
Shiro looks worried—and also unsure of how to act. If it had been the Galra arm he’d know at least some degree of how to provide maintenance. They’d need an Olkari to fix the damage to Ryou’s arm, and neither of them is really sure how to treat this odd mix of biology and technology. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks finally. “How bad is it?”  
  
Ryou winces, and slowly uncurls the arm from where he’d tucked it to his chest, laying it out on the stone to get a better look at the damage. There’s four deep punctures and several smaller scratches where the thing had bitten him. The smaller scratches are already repairing themselves—Ryner’s model had mixed the fluid Olkari metalworking with natural human healing factor, meaning the arm was treating them like paper-cuts and fixing accordingly. The punctures aren’t going to repair on their own, though, and will definitely need maintenance. Thankfully, unlike a regular arm, they don’t bleed, meaning the functionality might be reduced and it hurts, but at least his life isn’t pouring out into the dust.  
  
“Well,” he says, “If this were a real arm, I’d be losing it again. So. There’s that, I guess.” He winces. “A little bit regretting the touch sensation right now. Artificial nerves mean actual real pain. _Ow.”_  
  
And then, belatedly, he realizes that’s not the best sales pitch for the arm he’s been trying to convince Shiro to get for months now. So he adds with a wince, “Um, don’t… _ow_ …take this as a mark against this model. Just saying. Still worth getting. Definitely would have been eaten with the one you have. Just…maybe without nerves.”  
  
Shiro looks exasperated at Ryou's attempts to sell him on the arm even now, but helps him sit up and lean back against a nearby boulder. Ryou cradles his metal arm carefully in his lap. Already he’s getting more used to using it, which is fortunate. It still hurts if he jars it too much, but as long as he doesn’t go banging his arm on every surface, he’ll be okay.  
  
“At least you can use it,” Shiro says, relieved. “And nothing else was injured? You’re sure you’re okay?”  
  
“Bruised to hell, but I have a feeling you’re worse off,” Ryou says, eyes falling on the deep scores in the chest piece of the paladin armor. It didn’t go deep enough to reach Shiro’s actual body, but the deep, ragged slices in the black ‘v’ are disturbing all the same. “How’s your leg?”  
  
Shiro’s expression goes evasive. “It’s fine. I’m more worried about you.”  
  
But he doesn’t quite manage to hide the damage anyway, when Ryou looks him over once. The severed tongue is gone—Shiro either finally pulled it off, or cut it off with his Galra hand—but his left leg is still a mess. The fake crystal buds had scored deep scratches in the armor of the leg from foot to thigh, and there’s a long gash cutting through the black under-suit, just over where the thigh armor ends and below his hip.  
  
“You’re bleeding,” Ryou says, with just enough accusation for Shiro to take it seriously. “That’s not ‘fine,’ even by our standards. That thing’s tongue must have been barbed. Let me take a look.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Shiro says. “It’s already stopped bleeding, I think—“  
  
“Shiro. Please. For my own peace of mind, okay? I keep telling you, we’re going to need _you_ at the top of your game to live through this. If you end up worse because you were bleeding out and didn’t want to say anything, we’re _both_ screwed. You’ll be dead, and I’ll be soon after.”  
  
Ryou’s gotten pretty good at designing laser-guided arguments to appeal to exactly the right sense to get Shiro to play along, and this time is no exception. “Fine,” he agrees. “But we need to go fast. Xencherak’s in the field, and that fight was noisy. We also kicked up a lot of dust, and left evidence everywhere. He’s going to find this place, and we need to be gone.”  
  
“Fair enough. Sit back against the stone here and let me take a look.”  
  
Shiro does as bid, and Ryou doesn’t miss the tiniest relieved sigh as he finally shifts weight off his injured leg. It’s bothering him more than he’s trying to let on. Ryou crouches next to him, and sets to work examining the injury. Fortunately, the pain in his artificial arm has reduced to a dull throb when he moves it, and while that’s unpleasant, it’s not unfamiliar. He’s used to it from the Galra arm, and even if he’d have preferred to not deal with it at all, at least he knows how to cope while staying active.  
  
The gash is maybe an inch and a half long, and fortunately not very deep. Even so, it’s full of the threads of the paladin under-suit, and dirty with dust and who only knows what else. Shiro’s not wrong in that it’s already mostly stopped bleeding, or at least it’s only bleeding sluggishly, but that’s at least half because it’s so choked full of junk.  
  
“Wish I had some water to clean this,” Ryou says, frowning. “This cut’s pretty nasty.” He tears off a portion of his vest and tries to at least brush off some of the dust and grit from the wound. It doesn’t help much, since Ryou’s clothing is also so covered in dust it’s probably permanently red by now, but at least he makes a little difference.  
  
“Great,” Shiro says, through clenched teeth, as he does his best to pretend Ryou cleaning the wound doesn’t hurt at all. “That’s just what we need.”  
  
Sarcasm, but it hasn’t devolved into completely dark humor yet. Probably he’s okay. “If it makes you feel any better, we now have matching scars again,” Ryou says, as he finishes cleaning the wound to the best of his limited ability.  
  
“It really doesn't,” Shiro says. “But now you owe me an explanation.”  
  
Ryou snorts. “Did I not tell you that story? It’s when I first escaped. Well. ‘Escaped.’ After I broke out of the labs and stole a pod.” He launches into a quick explanation of his time on the ice planet as he tears off a larger section of his vest, flips it over to press the slightly cleaner inside of the cloth to Shiro’s wound, and binds it carefully. “At least we don’t need to cauterize it,” Ryou finishes. “Well, at least _you_ don’t have to cauterize it, I don’t think my arm can do that anymore...unless I shot you, which would cause a whole new set of problems. I don’t think it’s quite big enough for that, though, and it’s probably not a good idea with all that dust and grit in there.”  
  
“Thank goodness for small favors,” Shiro grumbles.  
  
Ryou helps him to his feet, and Shiro takes his left hand to haul himself upright. He’s careful about putting weight on his left leg, but he can stand and he can move, and that’s all that matters.  
  
At last, Ryou turns to regard the dead creature. It’s sprawled on its side in death, jaws open wide and severed tongue lolling out of its mouth, trickling rapidly congealing blood. From this angle, it looks for all the world like a giant rock with a crystal-studded rope attached, and Ryou shudders at the thought of meeting another. And then something hits him.  
  
“Bouldernoose,” he says, surprised.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“This thing,” Ryou says. “It’s a bouldernoose. Xencherak served it for dinner the other night. He hunted it himself.” Which means he knows how to fight one, and has definitely been in the area.  
  
Shiro’s eyes widen in realization. “Oh. I guess that makes sense. Lays its tongue out like a noose trap to attract prey, and then snaps it up. Perfect ambush predators in this environment.” He eyes the ground warily. “I say we avoid those crystal fissures from how on. No idea when they’ll be fake.”  
  
“Agreed,” Ryou says, “And he mentioned it was native to his planet, which means we’re probably still on Rembeliss. But also…know what that thing looks like?” He gestures at the dead creature.  
  
Shiro eyes him, and then the creature. “Breakfast?”  
  
“It’s like we have the same mind,” Ryou says. His stomach rumbles, agreeing with their assessment, and he’s already thinking back to the exquisite dinner Xencherak had given them.  
  
“Can we eat it? Everything else here has been toxic,” Shiro says.  
  
“He served it to us for dinner, and we didn’t die,” Ryou says. “As long as we cook it, I think we’re good. Besides, it tried to eat us first, so it’s only fair.”  
  
Shiro doesn’t argue with that assessment at all.  
  
Getting to the meat of the creature is easier said than done. Even in death, it’s carapace is a deterrent. But when it’s not actively trying to kill them, the gaps in its carapace are much easier to find, and Shiro can wedge his Galra arm into them and cut the armored parts off of the creature. Once in, it’s easy enough for him to cut away sections of meat with his Galra hand and shred them into more edible strips.  
  
They can’t make a cooking fire, but if Shiro puts bits of meat in the palm of his metal hand and lights up, it does an adequate job of cooking the flesh. It’s no gourmet steak like on Xencherak’s dinner table, and Hunk would lecture the two of them if he saw Shiro’s charred hand-cooking. But they don’t have much of a choice, and to be fair, it’s not as though the Galra hand was ever created as a precision instrument for cooking, even if Shiro _was_ any good at food preparation. They probably won’t die of some alien bacteria or give themselves food poisoning, and their stomachs are at least a little full, and that’s all that matters. Shiro’s hand even sizzles away the remnants of grease and blood with its intense heat, so it doesn’t even gunk up his metal fingers.  
  
“Just so you know,” Ryou says, as Shiro sizzles the first strip of meat into something passingly edible, “this is not a mark in the favor of _that_ arm, and not a reason to keep it afterwards.”  
  
“If we both had an Olkari arm we’d still be trying to break through that thing’s armor,” Shiro says mildly. “Or starving. Or getting alien salmonella. Variation isn’t a bad thing.” He hands off the cooked flesh to Ryou carefully.  
  
Ryou bites into it sullenly. A little charred, but he can hardly complain. “Coincidence,” he says. “If we both had a Galra arm, I couldn't have shot it, and I'd have been eaten. Probably you too, not long after. We could find other solutions for the food part. Still more pros for the Olkari variant than cons.”  
  
“Keep telling yourself that,” Shiro says, “and I’ll keep making breakfast for both of us.” And he starts heating up the next strip of meat in his fist with a rather pointed look.  
  
They eat on the go, once they’ve collected enough meat for at least one decent meal. They have no way to store it, and it will go bad if they just carry it with them, so they leave the rest of the carcass for the animals to take care of. The meat is stringy and has a strong mineral taste of iron, but it’s surprisingly juicy and it’s food, and that’s all Ryou cares about.  
  
They move on, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the location of the battle. After some discussion, they decide to continue climbing. From a higher vantage point they can still have a chance of finding where Xencherak might be hiding his ship and escaping. And if they _do_ encounter the hunter, having the high ground will prove to be a small advantage for them.  
  
So they keep climbing, but it’s easier said than done. The mountain starts growing steeper, requiring them to sometimes use both hands and feet to scramble up an incline or climb a short rock face or boulder. By the time the sun is high in the sky, vargas after their fight, both of them are miserable. They’re hot, sweaty, sticky, and thirsty as hell all over again, with the sun beating down on them and the stone alike.  
  
And on top of that, they’re hurting, too. Ryou’s Olkari arm sends him artificially created but all too real-feeling sensations of pain every time he jars it against the stones he’s climbing, or slips and slides and rolls down a slope. He feels sore everywhere, but especially in his back and shoulders, where the bouldernoose and pressed him down against the stone. And his body is exhausted. He’s not meant to be taking this much punishment consistently yet, with barely any food or water and no breaks, and he’s feeling it _badly_ now. At this point, he’s not even worried about the movement-long grace period he may or may not have on his medication. If this keeps up, he’s going to die before he even makes it that long.  
  
But for all that, he’s starting to worry about Shiro, too. Shiro’s been limping ever since the fight, only gingerly putting weight on his left leg, although he’s been doing his best to avoid showing his pain. Ryou knows the signs anyway, and it makes him nervous. If this keeps up, or if Shiro’s leg gets worse, he won’t be able to run. If he can’t run, he can’t get away from Xencherak, and if he can’t escape, the lunatic will murder him in cold blood just for the crime of being the black paladin, and Ryou’s “nestmate.”  
  
They need to get _out_ of here. Now.  
  
But they can’t get away so easily, so Ryou helps where he can, by pointing out less slippery inclines that will be slightly less punishing on both of them, or helping to pull Shiro up difficult boulders and cliff faces if he’s already at the top. For Ryou, his most dangerous injury is akin to phantom pains at the moment—it hurts, but it’s not ‘real’ and doesn’t really indicate an actual potentially lethal injury, and as long as he can ignore it he can function. For Shiro, it’s a real injury that is really slowing him down, and that’s a lot more dangerous.  
  
Still, for the moment, Shiro appears to be coping. Well enough to complain, at least. “Why does everything try to eat me?” he says, as he limps along the stone for the next rise they need to climb.  
  
“I think it's a you thing,” Ryou offers. “Happens to me too. Shirogane must just be extra tasty universally.”  
  
Shiro grumbles. “If I had known outer space included almost getting eaten _this_ much I think I’d have chosen a different career path.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have.”  
  
“No, I wouldn’t have,” Shiro sighs. “Let me whine in peace.”  
  
Ryou lets him whine in peace. As long as he’s doing that, he’s not hovering over Ryou, and worrying more about his clone than himself.  
  
The journey is full of difficult environmental dangers, but thankfully they manage to avoid further deadly encounters with the local wildlife. They had seen at least one more bouldernoose from a distance, snapping up an unfortunate lizard-yena creature that had been too slow in snatching its own prey. The coyote-sized critter had been dragged into the bouldernoose’s mouth by its long decoy-tongue with only a tiny whine of surprise before it was gone. That had been alarming, but the predator had been content digesting its dinner and hadn’t chased. There had been other fissures that looked a little suspicious, too, now that they knew what to look for. It meant there had been at least two or three more around them, but they had been extremely careful about avoiding all crystal fissures after that disastrous encounter. They manage, somehow, to not get eaten.  
  
It’s probably close to mid-to-late afternoon by the time they can actually see the top rise of the mountain, and both of them are exhausted. It’s extremely fortunate that they did not come across another hungry bouldernoose—or anything else particularly deadly—on the way, because Ryou’s not sure either of them could fight off another one. They need rest, and water, and actual medical attention.  
  
But they’re not getting any of that for a while and they both know it, so they grit their teeth and climb to the top. The view is spectacular; they can see the edges of the island in all directions. The mountain is in the center. Sprawling below the mountain on all sides are the wide valleys studded with rocks and crags, some leading to the petrified forests, others leading to ocean. To the north are the sheer cliff-faces they’d started up against, which appear to be some sort of deep rocky plateau that drops off into the ocean on the other side.  
  
They don’t see any sort of camp or hint of civilization sprawled out below them, but that would be too easy. “No way he could put any kind of ship in those trees,” Shiro says, pointing at the petrified forest. “Not enough room. The valleys directly below us are too obvious, too open. He’s not that stupid, he knows we’ll take an opportunity to steal a ship if it comes to it.”  
  
“Not the mountain, either,” Ryou says. “The top is the only place you could conceivably leave a ship, and there’s nothing here. You might be able to leave a helicopter on some of the slopes, but nothing much bigger than that.”  
  
Shiro’s lips press together in a thin line. “It’s the plateau, then. It has to be.”  
  
He gestures towards the sheer cliff faces they’d originally walked away from. Ryou can’t see far enough to make out any details on the tops of the plateaus, not when it’s miles away, but it makes sense. Xencherak could leave a large transport ship and backup soldiers and attendants up there easily. He could take a small shuttle or lift down and back, which would let him move his prey or himself without any fear of vehicles being stolen. Climbing the cliff faces would be all but impossible without any kind of equipment, and even if they’d been capable of scaling sheer walls naturally, they’d be easy targets with no place to run. Xencherak could snipe them from below, or his attendants could shoot down at them from above. Either way, they’d be extremely dead before they got far at all.  
  
“We’re really trapped,” Ryou says quietly. “That’s it. There’s no way off of this.”  
  
“We’ll figure something out,” Shiro says. But he sounds exhausted, and not quite so full of forced confidence as he usually is. He’s got to be hurting more than he’d care to admit if he’s letting that show; even now Ryou can see he’s putting nearly all of his weight on his right leg to keep it off his injury. Although Ryou also wonders if he’s also finally starting to realize he doesn’t need to fake confidence against his clone, who can see through it anyway.  
  
Either way, it’s frightening. They’re both in bad shape, and their original plans for escape are looking more and more impossible. At this point, they’ll need to try and stick it out for four and a half more quintents before they can even hope rescue will show, and at the rate they’re going, they’re not going to make it that long. Ryou’s not sure his body will hold out for that long, not even taking into account his steadily looming illness. And Shiro…Shiro’s hurt, and that injury has been getting worse as the day passes. Ryou knows he can tough it out, he’s done it in the arena, but an injury won’t make it any easier.  
  
“Okay.” Shiro takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he tries to focus. “Okay. New plan. We find shelter for the night to hole up. We rest and lick our wounds, and try to come up with another strategy. If we have to, we’ll dig in long enough for the others to get to us.”  
  
Ryou frowns. “Shelter, now? There’s still two vargas or so until sundown, right? Xencherak could still catch us up. I don’t want to be trapped in a cave with only one exit when he shows up.”  
  
But Shiro points at the sky in the distance. “Don’t have much of a choice. Look.”  
  
In the distance over the ocean, the first dark clouds of a storm are brewing. Ryou feels the first pangs of growing dread as he realizes what that means. “Sandstorms?”  
  
“Probably,” Shiro says. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be caught out in those on the mountain.”  
  
“Agreed,” Ryou says. “I’ll keep an eye out for shelter.”  
  
They’d passed a few other caves on the way up the mountain. Most had been small, and only one had had water, and it hadn’t been a large enough watering hole to even comfortably drink from. They’d barely gotten a few mouthfuls each of water for the journey. Unfortunately, Ryou has a feeling backtracking would be a terrible idea, what with a renowned hunter tracking them and almost certainly on their trail by now. They’ll need to find another way down, and another place to take shelter.  
  
But when Ryou starts to look around, searching for a new path down the top of the mountain that won’t immediately lead to a broken leg or broken neck, he spots something far scarier: an unnatural shine in the late afternoon sun, that doesn’t match any of the colors of the crystal buds they’d seen all day. This is the reflection of light off something man made.  
  
There shouldn’t be anything man-made on this mountain that he or Shiro don’t already have.  
  
_“Get down!”_ Ryou hollers, as he whirls around. The blast of the laser rifle goes off at the same time that Ryou hits Shiro hard, tackling him out of the way. The blast cracks off a large boulder in line with where their heads had been.  
  
Too close.  
  
Shiro and Ryou hit the ground hard, rolling on the stone. Too late, Ryou realizes his momentum ad been too great, as the two of them skid over the edge of a steep incline and flying out into open air.  
  
They curse almost in tandem, but then both of them are working fast to try and not die, thinking with the lightning-speed collaboration that can only come from literally sharing a mind and thought process. Ryou twists enough to get closer, at the same time that Shiro hooks an arm around his waist. Shiro’s jetpack flares to life, at the same time that he reaches out for the closest sheer rock-face, and digs his glowing Galra fingers deep into the stone.  
  
Between the force of the pack and Shiro’s dragging grip on the wall, he’s able to slow their fall enough that when they hit the ground fifty feet below, they don’t immediately splatter open on impact. The landing is still rough, though, and Ryou can’t help but scream as his Olkari arm takes the worst of the hit, and the bite marks still scored into it feel like they’re on fire all over again. Beside him, Shiro gasps and collapses onto his side as his bad leg gives out from underneath him.  
  
Ryou’s still gasping in pain and biting back another scream when he finally comes to his senses. He’d knocked them off the top of the mountain away from Xencherak, and bought them a few ticks, but Xencherak had been below them and chosen his attack point well. It will only be a matter of doboshes before he’s on them. So he forces himself to his feet, and staggers over to Shiro, clutching his damaged prosthetic to his chest.  
  
“Shiro. Shiro, c’mon, please tell me you can move.”  
  
Shiro moans, but after a moment he rolls onto his back. He looks awful, and Ryou’s sure that harsh landing didn’t do any favors for his wounded leg. But he nods after a moment, and says, “Yes.”  
  
“Then get up. We’ve gotta move. He’s _here_. Hurry!”  
  
Shiro groans, but he didn’t survive months in the arena by giving up when he was injured. He forces himself to his feet. He sways a little on his bad leg, but it holds, and he looks around warily. “Where is he?”  
  
Ryou does some quick mental calculations in his head, trying to reorient where he’d seen the warning glint. “He shot from there,” he finally says, pointing towards their left. “He’ll probably come from that direction, it’s faster than—look out!”  
  
Ryou’s prediction hadn’t been wrong. Xencherak leaps out from behind a rocky outcropping from the general direction Ryou had guessed. He’s no longer dressed in his finery and uniform of royal office. Now he’s wearing sturdy clothes that can weather the dust and rock of this region, colored the same sandy reds and golds as most of the stone they’ve seen so far. Between that and his scales, he blends into the environment shockingly well. He carries a high-powered laser rifle in one set of hands. At his hips is a single belt, and even at this distance Ryou can make out a few of the tools hanging on it—canteen, compass, hunting knife, and a square object with a glowing blue light that Ryou recognizes as his quintessal silencer.  
  
_He’s not leaving anything up to chance,_ Ryou realizes. _Not giving us even a chance to ransack his camp and steal the silencer so we can call the Black Lion, and not risking any of his people freeing us. He’s controlling that himself. If we want to escape, we’ll need to get that away from him, first._  
  
But that’s not happening now. The moment Xencherak spots them, he raises the laser rifle, sighting them down the barrel.  
  
_“Move!”_ Ryou hisses, darting behind the nearest boulder. Shiro moves, as fast as he can at any rate, scrambling in behind Ryou. The shot cracks off the stone not a foot distant, the same height as their heads. For the moment, they’re safe—but they also have lost visuals on Xencherak’s location.  
  
“You have done an _excellent_ job so far, Champion, black paladin,” Xencherak calls to them, and the worst part is he does sound like he’s legitimately trying to praise them, the sick freak. “I’ve never had any prey elude me for almost a full quintent before. You might have even lasted longer than that, if not for the bouldernoose! But you left too strong a trail after that. One of your number is injured, I think.”  
  
Another shot cracks off the top of their boulder, cutting a hole the size of a quarter into the stone. Ryou curses under his breath and glances at Shiro, who looks just as alarmed.  
  
“But even _that_ was impressive, I must say,” Xencherak continues. “An adult male bouldernoose! That’s quite an impressive kill with no equipment and no training in hunting their kind. I have only the highest praise for you, although I imagine the female bouldernoose will be none too pleased with you for killing their breeding male. If you had more time, I would warn you to keep your distance from them in the future. They have long memories and carry longer grudges.”  
  
He laughs, even as another shot cracks off the stone above them. It cuts at a different angle this time; Xencherak is moving. “I was afraid I would find your corpses down its gullet. I’ve often lost a challenge to the bouldernoose. But to find you’d killed it! The battle trail was spectacular. Truly, you are the Champion. And I see why the Black Lion might choose to hunt with you, paladin.”  
  
Another shot, from another angle. Xencherak’s getting closer, and they can’t let that happen. Ryou stares down at his damaged prosthetic, and takes a deep breath. He’s not sure if this is going to hurt or not, but he’s the only one who has a chance of driving Xencherak back. Shiro’s good, but he doesn’t have range, and at this point he lacks the agility and mobility to close the distance fast enough to make a difference.  
  
The pale green lines start at his fingertips and swell up to his elbow as always. It’s more sluggish, though, and it takes longer for the energy to charge in his palm. Ryner had warned him that could happen, too. Well, he’ll have to just make do where he can. Beside him, Shiro watches him charge up. He looks distinctly displeased about Ryou having to enter combat at all, but he knows just as well as Ryou does that there’s not much he can do to contribute in this fight as it is.  
  
Ryou finishes charging it just as Xencherak fires again. The hunter is trying to spook them out, or at least keep them pinned down so they can’t run. Ryou is sure he’s not expecting a counter-sniper. He gauges the approximate angle based on the last blast, then rises from his crouch quickly, takes rushed, painful aim where he’s fairly certain their opponent is at, and fires.  
  
A surprised yelp greets him as he ducks down behind the boulder again, just in time to avoid a wilder counter-shot. “What was _that?”_ Xencherak hisses, sounding genuinely surprised. Ah, so he _had_ done his research on Champion, but he’d never had a chance to learn Ryou’s abilities. He knew Shiro had no range, and he knew neither one went into the game with a firearm.  
  
But Ryou’d missed his one chance at a surprise attack to take advantage of that. He thinks he might have grazed Xencherak, but his aim had been too hasty and it had hurt, and he hadn’t managed to kill or even seriously wound.  
  
“You are _full_ of surprises, Champion,” Xencherak crows, a moment later. He sounds pleased, which just makes Ryou feel sick to his stomach. “That was you, Champion, was it not? No matter, I suppose. I will kill you both, but you are surely making this entertaining. I will relish this hunt for years to come. Now, why not come out and make it a glorious ending? You have already fought well. Why prolong the inevitable?”  
  
Ryou starts charging for a second blast, scowling. But Shiro covers his arm quickly at the wrist, careful to avoid the bite marks, and shakes his head _no_. “He’s goading us,” he murmurs, low under his breath. “He knows you have range now. He’s just waiting for your head to pop up over that rise. He’s stopped shooting, see?”  
  
Ryou feels even more sick to his stomach when he realizes that, but he nods, and deactivates his hand. But two can play at that game. If they can goad Xencherak into closing the distance, maybe they can still tag-team him. Working as a team is the only way they’ll be able to bring him down.  
  
“Some hunter you are,” he calls back. “Why would we be stupid enough to just walk out and let you kill us? What happened to your stupid honor of the hunt?”  
  
There’s silence from the other side of the boulder for a moment, but Xencherak still isn’t shooting, so Ryou will take it as a win. “A fair point,” the hunter says, finally. “It is unsportsmanlike of me to expect you to merely submit. You are fulfilling your role as prey in a most satisfactory manner. I should not forget my place as the predator.”  
  
Ryou has a bad feeling about this, very suddenly.  
  
“Very well then,” Xencherak says. “If you will not come out, then I will flush you out.”  
  
Something comes flying over the boulder. Ryou stares bemusedly at the object, not recognizing it, but Shiro’s eyes suddenly go wide with horror. “Grenade!” he yells, and hurls himself at Ryou.  
  
Ryou feels the impact hard in his chest, and the wind is knocked out of him, as Shiro’s shoulder crashes into his solar plexus. Then he’s being flung backwards with jetpack-enhanced speed, away from the boulder, away from the stone, and definitely away from solid ground.  
  
Shiro curls around him as much as possible, shielding him with the armor, just as the grenade explodes. The concussive force sends them flying even further, out into open air again, before they come slamming down on a slippery incline with loose rock that sends them sliding and rolling another forty feet below. Shiro continues to take the brunt of the impact, twisting to take the initial hit and shielding Ryou as much as possible from the loose debris and harsh rolling and bouncing. But even so, by the time they slide to a stop at the bottom Ryou is sore everywhere, cut up in half a dozen places from the loose, sharp rocks, and dizzy as hell from all the rolling.  
  
He groans as he pushes himself to his hands and knees, and Shiro’s arm slides limply off of him. For one terrifying moment he’s afraid Shiro is dead, but a hasty check at his throat proves he still has a pulse.  
  
“Shiro, c’mon, up, get up,” he hisses frantically. Up above, he can already see Xencherak leaping over the edge, and sliding down the steep incline of loose rock with the confident grace of years of experience. He won’t be able to aim while he’s using three of his hands to brace on the slope, but that gives them maybe thirty ticks at best.  
  
Shiro groans and blinks once, shaking his head and trying to regain his focus. He tries to move, but it’s too damn slow for Ryou’s taste, and he finally hooks his arms under Shiro’s and drags him behind the nearest outcropping of rocks. These are smaller than the last, and barely give them room to crouch, but at least it puts _something_ between them and Xencherak’s gun.  
  
He’s just in time. The toes of Shiro’s boots barely make it behind the boulders before a rifle blast cracks into the stone ground, leaving a burned black mark where Shiro’s foot had been. Ryou glares at the mark hatefully. That hadn’t even been a shot to kill—it had been a shot to disable, to prevent prey from escaping. Xencherak has no intention of making this clean, not if it’s entertaining.  
  
“This game again?” Xencherak calls. He sounds annoyed. “Come now. You can’t hide behind rocks all day. I respect your prowess in combat and in the hunt, Champion, paladin. Do not insult me or debase yourself acting like bottom-feeder prey. You are better than this.”  
  
“Says the asshole that thinks it’s _honorable_ to flush out prey with a _grenade?_ ” Ryou snaps back, even as he crouches next to Shiro anxiously. Shiro’s getting his senses back now, trying to push himself up into a sit. Ryou presses both his hands down on the dusted red-and-black of the paladin shoulder guards to hold him down. If he raises too much higher his skull will be right in position for a headshot.  
  
Xencherak does not seem happy with the accusation, based on the two rapid-fire shots that blast gravel out of the tops of their sheltering boulders. “It was an effective strategy, was it not? You were driven out.”  
  
“I thought _you_ said that if the hunter overpowered the prey too much, there was no honor in it anymore,” Ryou argues. “How the hell does a grenade not fall into that category?” He really shouldn’t be having a conversation with his would-be murderer, but if Xencherak is talking, he’s not flinging grenades. It’s a start.  
  
The hunter seems to consider this thoughtfully, enough that he stops shooting. “A fair assessment, Champion,” Xencherak finally agrees. “You are as fitting an opponent in wit as in combat. I will flush you out in other, more sportsmanlike ways, then.”  
  
Another shot fires over the boulder, and scatters fine chunks of stone down on Ryou’s head.  
  
Great.  
  
“We cannot fight him right now,” Ryou hisses, low enough that only Shiro will be able to hear him. “No way we win that fight, even tag-teaming him.” Ryou is running on nothing and barely functional, and Shiro is injured and dazed from taking the brunt of two falls.  
  
“Just need to hold for five doboshes,” is Shiro’s answer. “Maybe less.”  
  
“Are you _insane?”_ Ryou hisses. “He’ll be on top of us then! Are you just estimating how long it’s going to take him to kill us both?” Maybe he’d hit his head too hard on the way down. What difference could a couple doboshes possibly make?  
  
“No,” Shiro says. He gestures behind Ryou. Their boulders are at an outcropping close to another steep drop on the mountain, and beyond that is open sky and a view of the ocean miles away. The storm clouds over the ocean are thicker and darker than ever—and there’s a wall of sand already sweeping across the valley below towards them, hundreds of feet high and rapidly growing taller still.  
  
“Oh,” Ryou whispers.  
  
“Yeah,” Shiro says. He’s already sealed his helmet, and appears to have more or less recovered his senses.  
  
Ryou swallows. “This…this is going to be painful, any way we look at it.”  
  
“Probably,” Shiro agrees. “I’ll do most of the work. I’m armored. Do what you can to hold him off, and then to hold together for the storm.”  
  
Ryou nods. What else can he do? It’s either die in a storm that tears them apart, or die getting shot by the sick freak on the other side of the rocks. If it comes to it, he’s just spiteful enough to deprive the bastard of a kill by throwing himself to the elements.  
  
That doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it. “Shit,” he says, after a moment.  
  
Shiro looks particularly grim as he says, “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”  
  
Another shot cracks off the top of the boulder, shaving another few bits of dust and rock off and cascading it own on their heads. Ryou clenches his jaw and concentrates, letting his Olkari arm light up again and charging what power he can. After Xencherak shoots again, this time from a slightly different angle than before, Ryou pops up over the boulder and fires, sweeping his arm across in the direction of their attacker.  
  
He’s never tried attacking this way before—in the past he’s always trained for intense, single-target bursts, more akin to Lance’s sniping. Now he lays down cover like Hunk’s bayard instead, sweeping a continual blast across where he estimates his opponent is. Xencherak yelps and ducks for cover behind a boulder of his own, and Ryou can smell singed cloth and charred scales. He’d hit, at least partially.  
  
He’s elated, but he’s also exhausted. The Olkari arm winks out as the leaf-vein patterns up his forearm go dull, and he gasps. Whipping the damaged arm around like that had been painful, and not helpful for his concentration, but he may have pushed it too far. He tries to light up again, but his fingertips flicker weakly green for a moment before going dull once more. He’ll need a little time to recharge.  
  
“A fine trick, Champion,” Xencherak calls. “How many more have you got in you? You cannot delay the inevitable forever.”  
  
This time, Ryou doesn’t bother to answer. If he does, Xencherak will hear the fatigue in his voice and realize he’s not shooting, and he’ll strike. Let him think Ryou has a bead on _his_ hiding place and is just waiting for him to pop his head out. Let him think they’ve already run. Let him think anything, but that it’s time to begin the attack again.  
  
“Almost,” Shiro whispers. He’s watching the storm intently.  
  
“I have never had a final confrontation take so long,” Xencherak continues shouting to them. “Some Galra officers took the longest to kill, but they always attacked in the end. You have certainly made this challenging. Your will to live is exceptional.”  
  
So let us keep living, Ryou wants to shout, but he doesn’t. He’s listening. Xencherak’s voice is moving, now. He’s not shooting, but he’s not hiding anymore, either. Then he’s silent, and that’s arguably worse—it means he’s sneaking, and that’s not a good thing.  
  
“I think this will be perhaps my most memorable hunt,” Xencherak says suddenly, from just around the other side of the boulder, and Ryou feels his blood run cold.  
  
Xencherak steps around the stones that had been shielding them in full view, rifle at the ready. It levels instantly at Shiro. Ryou is in between the two and leaps immediately up from his crouch, shoving the end of the rifle up at the same time it fires. It misses Shiro’s helmet by inches.  
  
At the same time, Shiro bursts into movement. He catches Ryou around the waist, drags him close, and leaps off the edge of the mountain—straight into the sandstorm that’s just now smashing itself against the mountainsides.  
  
Ryou has about five ticks to register Xencherak’s livid screeching above them. “The drystorm was predicted to have another twenty doboshes!” the hunter screams—into a communicator, Ryou can only presume. “I will have your _head_ , Zenesath—“  
  
But then the whipping winds override even Xencherak’s furious screaming, and Ryou gets his first face-full of sand as they sink into the teeth of the storm.  
  
Ryou doesn’t really remember training for survival in this kind of storm, but Shiro had always had them hunker down and wait it out, and said traveling in them was dangerous. Ryou can see why. There’s no visibility, and within seconds his eyes, nose and mouth are filled with sand and dust grains. He squeezes his eyes shut and struggles to lift his vest over his nose and mouth like before, but it’s difficult when the winds smash them around in a free-fall. He clings to Shiro for additional support however he can, trying hard not to obscure the jetpack or throw Shiro off balance.  
  
He can barely hear Shiro’s jetpack whining as he struggles to control their flight. But it just means they have enough resistance to not immediately splat on the ground, and doesn’t protect them at all from the wind, which whips them around like a plaything. They smash sideways hard into a cliff face before ricocheting off, and Ryou chokes back a scream to keep from eating sand when it jars his Olkari arm. And then again when the wind picks them up and then slams them into the ground—Ryou thinks it’s the ground, everything’s been turned around—with enough force to leave Ryou reeling.  
  
He can’t predict what’s next. He’s completely blind in this storm, completely without control as the winds throw them around, completely at the mercy of the elements, completely dependent on Shiro to save them both. It’s terrifying.  
  
It’s terrifying, but he trusts Shiro. The first few minutes are frightening and painful, and Ryou has no way to predict when impact is imminent. But Shiro yells for him to brace, and when he hears the warning, he does. Shiro’s grip is iron around his waist, refusing to let him go even when the winds scream and tear at them, trying to rip them apart. When the force of the winds on them picks up and prepares to slam them into something, Shiro curls around him as much as possible, trying to use the armor to shield them both as best as he can.  
  
And Shiro didn’t get to be the Kerberos pilot by being stupid, either. The initial descent into the storm is awful, but Ryou can _feel_ Shiro gradually starting to get the hang of reading the winds and learning how to move with them, in the way he adjusts his body and his angle and uses his jetpack at just the right moment. Eventually, the winds smash them into things less, and the impacts don’t hurt quite as much when they do. Ryou feels them touch down a lot, he thinks, as Shiro hits the ground and pushes off again into the air, letting the raging sands carry them as far as possible from their would-be murderer and cover their escape.  
  
And eventually, the winds start to die down. It’s probably only been twenty doboshes or so, based on the length of time the other storms have taken, but Ryou feels like he’s aged a lifetime and probably will have more gray hairs to show for it. Shiro’s travel starts to get a little steadier as he jump-flies them farther, and the grains of sand tear at Ryou’s face and arms less. Ryou finally risks opening his eyes, grimacing at the dry, gritty feel, but at least he can see again.  
  
Shiro looks exhausted. Even with the protection of the armor and a completely sealed helmet, the storm had clearly been wearing on him. It can’t have been easy to fly the storm even solo, much less dragging the dead weight of his clone around—even if Ryou does weigh less than he does at the moment. Ryou can feel the arm around his waist trembling from exertion, and Shiro’s next touch-down and re-launch with the jetpack into the trailing winds of the dying storm wobbles alarmingly.  
  
“Shiro, I think we’re good,” Ryou croaks. His voice cracks painfully, and his throat feels dry and awful. He coughs, spitting a mouthful of dust. “Let’s find shelter, before the next one hits.” If the pattern holds at all, these storms will be happening all night.  
  
“Little farther,” Shiro says. “Storm’s almost out. Think the winds carried us close to the other side of the mountain. Xencherak will have a hard time finding where we went, but we should use the cover as much as—“  
  
He doesn’t get to finish. The next time he touches down on the ground when his jetpack can’t sustain them, his leg buckles completely, and he crashes to the ground. Ryou goes crashing with him, hitting the stone with a yelp. Shiro finally loses his grip, and Ryou rolls several feet away with the leftover momentum of the flight, finally sliding to a stop in a painful sprawl.  
  
Ryou moans, head spinning. His Olkari arm throbs, and his whole body is sore. He’s cut up in a dozen places, though thankfully most of them are shallow, and already not bleeding. He doesn’t want to get up. He wants to lay there until he passes out, and sleep for a week.  
  
But that means dying, and he doesn’t want to die even more than he doesn’t want to get up. So he clenches his jaw and forces himself to his feet, staggering back over to Shiro.  
  
Shiro hasn’t gotten up—but not for lack of trying. He tries to push himself to his feet, but his left leg is uncoordinated and moves like it’s barely connected to him. He only just manages to drag himself to his hands and knees before he collapses again, cursing in frustration.  
  
“Forget how to walk?” Ryou asks, voice still hoarse. God, he wants water, so bad. “Because I have an excuse there, but—“  
  
“Numb,” Shiro cuts him off, cursing again. “Left leg. Can’t even feel it anymore.”  
  
“Oh,” Ryou says, heart plummeting to his stomach. “Shit. Okay, let me help you up. How long?”  
  
“Been losing feeling throughout the storm,” Shiro admits. “I figured it was just the winds, but…”  
  
“Yeah. But,” Ryou agrees. “I wonder if the bouldernoose had some kind of toxin in its tongue.” He helps haul Shiro to his feet, sliding the Galra arm over his shoulders. Shiro flinches, and Ryou frowns. “Sorry if it pulls, I know that hurts.”  
  
“Not that,” Shiro says. “I mean. Not worse than usual.”  
  
Oh. The ‘don’t touch Ryou with the Galra hand’ thing, then. “Unless you light up, you’re not going to kill me with this,” he promises. “C’mon. Lean on me. I’ll help you walk.”  
  
“Can you take my weight?” Shiro asks, skeptically.  
  
No. Ryou’s entire body is practically screaming in protest at the punishment it’s taken, without needing more. “Yes,” Ryou says, “and it’s either this or I drag you, but I sure as hell am not leaving you out here for _him_ to find.”  
  
Shiro grimaces, but leans on him. He’s heavy, and the Galra prosthetic’s metal digs into Ryou’s shoulders, but he grits his teeth and takes it without complaint. “Okay. Let’s find some shelter, then.”  
  
They start moving, but now it’s starting to get darker out as the sun sets. Shiro moves a lot slower than Ryou would like, leaning completely on Ryou to try and take each step, and his left leg drags awkwardly. And the longer it takes to move, the more Ryou gets worried they might be seen, especially after the last of the dust storm winds whip away.  
  
He has no idea where Xencherak is, or what their enemy had done to survive the storm, although Ryou’s sure he’s not dead. What he does know is they’re a lot farther down the mountain, nearly at its base, than they had been—and while it might take a while for Xencherak to get to them, if he still has his vantage point of height, it might be very easy to spot them down below. Ryou’s dark clothing and its now permanent coating of reddish dust means he blends in fairly well, and might avoid scrutiny. But Shiro’s reddish-white armor and glowing teal strips still stick out too much in their current environment, even in the growing dark, and he’s clearly wounded now. He’s an obvious target if Xencherak has eyes on them now, and Ryou waits with terrified dread for the moment the shot rings out and Shiro collapses.  
  
But it doesn’t happen, thankfully, and they get even luckier when Ryou just barely makes out the crevice of another cave at the mountain base. This one is smaller and more cramped, but it doesn’t have anything living in it when Ryou approaches cautiously. Getting Shiro inside is a little tricky—the entrance is only wide enough for one of them—but they manage, just as the first warning winds start to pick up outside for another dust storm. The cave is a little wider farther in, with the same bioluminescent moss giving them just enough to see by. There’s even another watering hole, this one about the size of two of the castle bunks side by side.  
  
“Helmet says it’s clean,” Shiro says tiredly, as Ryou helps him sit down against one of the cave walls. “Safe to drink. No idea if it’s occupied.”  
  
Ryou regards the watering hole warily. “Well,” he says finally, “if there is anything living in it, it’s probably small enough for me to punch if I have to.” Even so, he approaches cautiously, despite his awful thirst and painfully dry throat. He hasn’t forgotten the way the creature on the ice planet had attacked him, and he’s had enough of things trying to eat him for the day.  
  
Like before, nothing attacks. Once he’s sure it’s safe, he drinks his fill greedily. The water has the same mineral taste as the other cave, but his throat feels much better when he’s done, and he feels a little less shaky. Shiro drinks his fill as well when Ryou helps him over, laying out flat on his stomach since he can’t crouch easily on his wounded leg.  
  
“Let me take a look at that injury,” Ryou says, once their thirst is taken care of.  
  
“You should look after yourself, first,” Shiro says. “We’re trapped here for the night, if the storms hold the same. I don’t need to walk anywhere. You’re bleeding.”  
  
Ryou bites back an exasperated retort, and instead says, “My wounds are mostly superficial. I didn’t need help getting into this cave. Basic triage, Shiro—your wound is currently highest on the list. So I’m going to take a look at it.”  
  
He deliberately turns the last part from a request into an order, pulling out some old ‘Shiro’ mannerisms on purpose. Shiro will dodge the question all day, otherwise. Shiro grumbles, but finally nods. “Fine.”  
  
The wound is a mess, when Ryou unwraps his makeshift bandage from earlier. The area around the wound is swollen and red, and when he touches at the skin carefully, Shiro admits he can’t really feel it. Under any other circumstance, not being able to feel the pain of an injury might be a bonus, but in this case, Ryou has a feeling it’s a bad sign.  
  
“It must have had a paralytic or numbing agent on those tongue barbs,” Ryou says grimly. He uses water from the pool in the center to clean the wound as best as he can. The water’s not perfect, still a little gritty, but it’s better than nothing. “That’d make sense, in case one of those lizard-hyena things got away before they could be wrapped up. Even a cut would slow it down and make a chase easier. But you’re a lot bigger than those things and we’re not native to this place…must’ve taken a while for it to settle in.”  
  
“Lucky me,” Shiro mutters.  
  
“Could be worse,” Ryou says. “Could have set in when we were fighting Xencherak.” He tears off more strips of his own vest and re-wraps the leg injury. He’s going for lighthearted, but internally he’s worried. If the wound is doing this to Shiro already, do they even have a prayer of making it five quintents until a rescue? They’re probably safe for the night—the storms will protect them—but come morning Xencherak will be after them again. Ryou’s not sure they stand a chance. Not if Shiro’s like this.  
  
Shiro merely grunts in acknowledgement. “How’s your arm holding up?” he asks after a moment. “It’s obviously hurting you when you move it…”  
  
Ryou feels his eye twitch at the question. _Uh-oh._ That’s a Shiro tic, still. “It’s fine,” he says shortly. “Yes, it’s got a couple big puncture wounds, but it’s just pain. It can’t actually kill me.”  
  
Shiro frowns. “I can take it off if it’s really bothering you that bad. Ryner showed me how…”  
  
“Not for nothing, but I do not want to be down an arm in a hostile environment, where things want to eat us, and there’s a crazy guy on the loose,” Ryou says. “I’ll deal with the pain if it means having a weapon.” He clenches his metal fist.  
  
“Fine,” Shiro says with a sigh, “But let me know if that changes. It’s bad enough I got you into this mess…you shouldn’t have to suffer more than necessary.” He regards Ryou with what is definitely concern, and Ryou feels his eye twitch again. “How’s the rest of you holding up? I’m sorry—I tried to shield you in the storm as much as possible, but your face is still—“  
  
“Stop,” Ryou interrupts.  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _Stop,”_ Ryou repeats. “Stop talking. Shiro, seriously—what the hell is going on with you? You never even thought about coddling the others like this. Not even Allura, and she’s royalty, where people at least expect that sort of thing.”  
  
“What?” Shiro blinks at him, clearly stunned by the outburst.  
  
“I’m not made of glass,” Ryou says, barely containing his irritation. “I can take a beating and not break. I told you this morning, I’m _you,_ at least in part. But all this worrying—I don’t even know where it’s coming from, and I basically shared a brain with you until a year ago.”  
  
He gestures at Shiro’s injury. “Between the two of us, you’re hurting way more than me. But you’re off game. Back off, okay? Worry about yourself. You’re going to get us _both_ killed if you keep this up.”  
  
Shiro looks startled at Ryou’s words, but after a moment he swallows. “Sorry,” he says. “I just…I’m worried. About you.”  
  
“And I get that,” Ryou says, trying to force his irritation down into something more reasonable. “I _get_ that this is not an ideal situation. I get that I wasn’t approved for this. I don’t want to be here either. But I’m here. I don’t have a choice. And I can take it for a little while. I’m not fragile, here.”  
  
“You were,” Shiro says, very softly.  
  
It’s Ryou’s turn to blink in surprise. “Huh?”  
  
“You _were_ fragile,” Shiro says. “When you were sick. You…you’ve said you don’t really remember much of it. And you couldn’t see yourself. But it was…it was bad, Ryou. It was _terrifying,_ to see you that way. You were helpless. You needed us for everything, but I couldn’t even touch you to help you without you bruising.” He stares at his metal hand, and in a sharp moment of clarity, Ryou suddenly gets where Shiro’s aversion to using his Galra hand around Ryou comes from.  
  
“I don’t want to see that happen ever again,” Shiro finishes. His voice is almost a whisper. “So I worry.”  
  
And Ryou is…well, he’s stunned, if he’s honest with himself. Shiro isn’t wrong; he doesn’t remember much of his illness, at least not correctly. Mostly it’s just impressions of hurting, or being scared, weak, and confused, all sensations that get increasingly more muddled. Sometimes he still remembers events wrong, even if he knows on reflection now that it’s not what really happened—being late for Kerberos mission briefings, or needing to deal with coalition events. He remembers being terrified of being put back in one of the tubes to die forgotten in his sleep, or until they slapped him back on a table to be harvested for parts for new clones, or dissected until they figured out what they’d done wrong. None of those memories were good ones. All of them hurt in their own ways.  
  
But more than anything else, what had carried him through it, what he remembers the strongest, is _Shiro_. And not just Shiro’s presence, but his strength. Through the worst of it—the most frightening moments, the moments that were agonizingly painful, the moments when he hadn’t understood what was happening—Shiro had _been_ there, and he’d constantly been a reliable, calm presence. Even when he’d been blind, even in the darkness, Shiro’s voice had been a constant, soothing presence that had anchored him.  
  
Shiro had taken care of everything. He’d been steadying and solid when the entire rest of Ryou’s world had been in turmoil, and it had given him a rock to cling to in the middle of the stormiest seas. He’d never been afraid, and that meant Ryou had been strong enough to make it through his own fears.  
  
It only occurs to Ryou now, at this very moment, that Shiro had been _terrified._ He’d been scared to death the entire time he’d been there for Ryou—but he was Shiro, and he was damn good at faking it when somebody else needed him. And Ryou _had_ needed him—he’d been helpless, and breakable, and completely dependent on Shiro just to stay alive. So he’d done it, and Ryou in that state hadn’t been able to tell the difference, and it had helped save his life.  
  
In retrospect, Ryou really should have known better than to think it was so simple as that. He’d shared a mind with Shiro, after all. He’d pulled the same tricks, _as_ Shiro. Ryou might have been the one who was sick, but Shiro definitely had his own takeaway from it, and he’s been an idiot for not realizing it sooner.  
  
Of course Shiro’s worried about him now. He’d seen Ryou at his most breakable, learned to protect and support him through all of that, and Ryou hasn’t even recovered from that fully yet. Ryou is facing down the very real possibility of slipping towards that state again, without his medication. Shiro’s probably scared to death for him. It’s almost surprising he’s not broadcasting that _more._  
  
“Okay,” Ryou says, taking a deep breath. The irritation he’d felt earlier is gone, and his voice is more patient this time when he speaks. “I get that. And I appreciate the concern. I’m glad you’re willing to look out for me like that. But I can’t be a liability here right now, for either of us. We need to work together to get through this, which means you need to trust me to handle myself, and you need to take care of yourself. I’m not as fragile as you think, right now. You need to let me prove that.”  
  
Shiro frowns. “You don’t have to prove anything. I told you already—“  
  
Ryou holds up a hand to silence him. “This isn’t about me proving I’m worth keeping on the team, or that I can be productive as your clone. This is _me_ talking here. Ryou. Not 'your clone.' _Me._ You need to let me do this. I can’t be anything of my own if I can’t even get started. Okay?”  
  
Shiro stares at him, and then seems to deflate. “Alright,” he says, after a moment. “I’m sorry. I guess I went a little overboard. I didn’t mean to. I just…” He falls short, and shrugs uncomfortably.  
  
“It’s fine,” Ryou says. “I get it, now. But have a little faith in me. I’m not going to die if you take your eyes off me for thirty seconds or let me do things on my own.” He offers a weak smile. “I mean, Haggar’s been trying to off me for months and even she couldn’t manage. Give me some credit here.”  
  
Shiro snorts at that, and then groans. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. That _hurts.”_  
  
“Tell me about it.” Ryou sighs. “We’re both beat. Xencherak’s not getting in here for a while with those storms, but it’s probably smart to still keep a watch. You rest first—you could probably use it, after getting us through that storm. I’ll wake you to switch after a few hours.”  
  
Shiro looks like he wants to protest, but he fights it down admirably, and nods. “Okay. Here—you can have the helm again for watch.” He works it off of his head, and hands over the helmet. Ryou is a little relieved by that—goofy as it is to wear _just_ the paladin helmet, the visor and its night-vision overlays are too useful for keeping watch, especially in this environment. “Wake me if there’s trouble, or if you need a break.”  
  
“Will do,” Ryou promises. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”  
  
He watches as Shiro settles down on the stone, awkwardly dragging his bad leg until he finds a somewhat comfortable spot in the cave to curl up and rest. He must be worse off than he realizes, because Shiro is normally a light sleeper and it takes him a while to settle in, but his breaths steady into sleep almost instantly. Ryou stays perfectly still and listens, but after fifteen doboshes pass on the visor clock and the storm starts to abate outside, he finally decides Shiro’s out for the count, and shifts back towards the main entrance.  
  
He’s going to watch as long as he can. He’s exhausted, but Shiro’s worse by far, and needs all the rest he can get. Shiro might have been getting over-protective and worried over Ryou this entire time, but the more time passes in this sick game, the more Ryou seriously starts to worry about _Shiro._ He just has to hope that a few vargas of rest and a bellyful of mineral water will be enough to get him back on his feet, and that whatever toxin that’s affecting Shiro will break down in his body overnight.  
  
Because if he can’t recover, and the new day dawns with them in the same situation as they’re in now, he’s pretty sure quintent number three is going to be their last.


	4. The Third Quintent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning for this chapter: although there is no actual major character death, this chapter does start off with a dreamed "death" sequence. It isn't real, but if you're still not comfortable with that, skip to where the italics end. 
> 
> Happy Birthday, Shiro. Here's some pain for you. :)

_There’s no cure._  
  
 _There’s no cure, and Ryou gets worse every day. There’s nothing they can do to save him. Nothing Shiro can do but watch. And it’s heartbreaking, to watch, but Shiro can’t bring himself to leave even when he knows the inevitable is coming. He can’t bear to leave Ryou alone with this at the end. He’s already suffering because Shiro couldn’t save him. He doesn’t deserve to be abandoned, too._  
  
 _There’s no cure, and Ryou’s mind degrades. “Ryou” doesn’t really exist anymore. It hasn’t been a name he’s understood for days. “Shiro” barely exists anymore, either. Most of those memories are gone, lost to the failsafe’s rampant destruction. In the end all that’s left is a weak and sickly Shiro-shaped husk, and a bundle of basic human instincts and rudimentary emotions, the blank slate that been created before the Galra shoved Shiro’s mind and personality into his brain. Mostly, what’s left is fear, and confusion, and pain._  
  
 _There’s no cure, and even the physical remnants of Ryou degrade. Shiro can barely touch him anymore without hurting him. There’s no real comfort he can offer, anymore; Ryou doesn’t understand his words. All he can do is hold him, to make his breathing a little easier, to ease him to sleep by the sound of Shiro’s heartbeat. All he can do is wait, until the last of Ryou’s rattling breaths fall silent, until he feels Ryou’s own struggling heartbeats finally give up. All he can do is be there, at the end, even if Ryou has no idea that he isn’t alone in his last moments._  
  
 _And it hurts more than anything._  
  
 _“Shiro.”_  
  
 _It’s his fault. This is_ his _fault. He should have tried harder. He should have_ protected _him. He should have found a solution,_ any _solution. He should have figured out_ something.  
  
 _“Shiro!”_  
  
 _But he hadn’t. He hadn’t tried hard enough, and Ryou had paid the price. He’d promised himself he would save Ryou, and he’d failed. Ryou had been a victim in all of this, and he’d needed Shiro, and he’d never stood a chance._  
  
 _Why couldn’t he—_  
  
 _“Shiro! Hey! Wake up!”_   
  
Shiro jerks awake with a hiss. It takes him a moment to remember where he is—not on an Altean ship, but in a cave on Rembeliss. It takes him a moment to remember _why_ —the terrible hunting game, courtesy of their unexpectedly crazy host. He feels awful, sore everywhere and hot and uncomfortable, and the disorientation makes him dizzy and lost.  
  
But it’s not until his eyes fall on Ryou—a very alive, very aware, concerned-looking Ryou crouching next to him—that the last elements of the dream finally slip away. Ryou looks awful—covered head to toe in sandy dust, with superficial cuts and scrapes and raw abrasions on his face and exposed arm, and a metal prosthetic full of puncture wounds. He looks exhausted, with deep lines under his eyes. But he’s not the withered husk of Shiro’s nightmare or his memories. He’s alive. That’s all Shiro needs to know.  
  
Ryou frowns. “Hey. It’s just a bad dream,” he says. He lifts his left hand, like he’s not sure if he should reach out to Shiro or not. The confusion is understandable; Shiro doesn’t react well to being touched unexpectedly when coming out of a nightmare, and Ryou probably remembers that on a personal level. He’s probably not sure if Shiro’s aware, yet.  
  
“Right,” Shiro says. His voice is hoarse and painful, and he groans.   
  
Ryou gives him a sympathetic look. “Try some water,” he says, gesturing at the pool in the middle of the cavern.   
  
Shiro nods, but doesn’t move. He needs a minute. The dream had been vivid and frightening, in part because of how close they really came to losing Ryou. Just a week or two more…  
  
Ryou frowns. “Arena?” he asks after a moment, softly.  
  
“No.”  
  
“The prisons?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Ryou’s frown grows deeper. “It’s not this, is it? Because we’re going to make it through this.”  
  
“No.” Although it may as well be. He knows Ryou’s lying. They’re in trouble, and they both know it. If anything, he’s more surprised at Ryou’s sudden swing towards optimism, when he’s been bluntly cynical this entire time. If he’s trying to encourage Shiro, then Shiro must look awful.   
  
Ryou regards him carefully. Shiro can tell he’s trying to figure out what the dream was, but there are only so many options. “You know you can tell me,” he finally says. “We did share a headspace, for a while. Not much I won’t understand.”   
  
He’s not wrong, but sharing this dream isn’t an option. Not after Ryou’s frustrations from last night. Shiro hadn’t realized how hard Ryou was struggling to prove he could handle himself; he’d just been worried over him being in so much danger when he wasn’t _ready._ But Ryou hadn’t been wrong. This has to be a team effort. He _has_ to put a little faith in Ryou’s ability. Admitting he’d just dreamed about Ryou being so helpless…about Shiro being powerless to save him…  
  
He shudders. Well, that’s probably a big step backwards.  
  
“Maybe later,” he offers, by way of compromise. Which mostly means ‘we’re probably going to die today, so I won’t bother you with it,’ but could also be ‘I’ll tell you after we get rescued and have less important things to deal with.’   
  
Ryou frowns at that, and Shiro knows he catches both meanings. But he lets it pass for now. “Okay. Get some water, then. You look like you need it.”   
  
Shiro nods, but when he tries to move, he still feels awful. He still can’t really feel his left leg, and has to look down to be sure it’s even there. The numb sensation is starting to spread up to his hip as well, which probably isn't a good sign. The rest of him feels weak as a newborn kitten, shaky and sore, and he has to drag himself to the edge of the watering hole. He feels like he’s dying of thirst, burning on the inside, but no matter how much of the cool water he drinks he doesn’t feel any better.  
  
Ryou’s still frowning as he watches. “Can you still not feel your leg?”  
  
“No,” Shiro admits.   
  
“Stay still. Let me take a look at it again.”   
  
Shiro does. Staying still means not moving, and he’s completely fine with not moving. He closes his eyes and feels a little better that way, although there’s no way in hell he feels like going back to sleep. It’s just more comfortable to have his eyes closed for now, that’s all.  
  
He’s only really distantly aware of Ryou prodding at his leg as he unties the makeshift bandages, since he can’t really feel him poking at the actual wound. He can hear him though, and the soft, dismayed hiss Ryou makes is almost enough to get Shiro to open his eyes.  
  
“Whatever was on that tongue was a lot worse than a numbing agent,” Ryou says, after a moment. “This is getting infected. Pretty bad.”   
  
“Oh,” Shiro says. “Shit.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ryou agrees. “How are you feeling?” Shiro hears a splash at the water, and figures Ryou’s probably getting more to try and clean the injury again.  
  
Shiro considers lying. He’s not the one recovering from a nasty degenerative illness artificially inserted into his genes; he’s not the one who’s in the most danger here. He shouldn’t worry Ryou. Except that’s not right. They’d just talked about that. He has to let Ryou help, especially if his wound is as bad as it sounds. Ryou has to know how he feels if he’s going to help at all.  
  
“Bad,” he admits, finally, after wrestling with his thoughts. “Weak. Dizzy. Too hot.”  
  
He’s startled when cool metal presses against his forehead, enough to open his eyes and try and jerk his head away. A moment later, he realizes that Ryou’s Olkari arm actually feels better than he’d anticipated, and presses his forehead into the artificial palm.   
  
Ryou mutters to himself for a moment. “You’re feverish. That infection’s worse than I thought.”  
  
“Can’t be that bad,” Shiro mutters. “I wasn’t last night.”   
  
“Shiro, if even _this_ hand can tell you’re too hot, it’s a bad fever,” Ryou says, all exasperation tinged by concern. “It only feels extremes, remember?” He pulls his hand away, and Shiro hisses in protest. A moment later there’s a dripping bit of wet cloth pressed to his forehead instead. It’s not as nice as the metal hand, but lukewarm water still feels better than nothing.  
  
“There’s maybe a varga left until the storms finish, if things work the same as they did yesterday,” Ryou says. He runs the cloth carefully over Shiro’s face, neck and throat, doing what he can to help with the fever as he talks. The coolness is a relief. “After that, he’ll be coming for us, and we’ll need to get moving.”   
  
Shiro dreads the thought of even trying to move. Feeling like this, he’s not sure he can for long. With his left leg not even working, he’s not sure he can at all. But not moving is not an option, so he pushes Ryou’s hands and the cloth away, and pushes himself up. He’s only moderately successful. He manages to get to his hands and right knee, but his left hand is shaking so badly he’s not sure how much longer it can support him, and most of his weight is on his metal arm.   
  
“Woah! Stop!” Ryou hisses, and hooks his Olkari arm under Shiro’s left. He winces a moment later when that presses at the puncture wounds, which clearly hurts him—it still baffles Shiro, that the artificial arm transmits _pain_ —but he helps push Shiro back to sit against the cave wall. Shiro drags his bad leg awkwardly in front of him, and then lets himself collapse against the stone. Even that had taken too much out of him.   
  
“Don’t think I’m walking out of here,” he admits to Ryou, very softly.   
  
Ryou curses. “Damn it. I’m not sure I can carry you for long. You weigh more than me still, and you’re all muscle and one giant metal arm.”   
  
“I’m…sorry?” Shiro says, baffled at the note of accusation in Ryou’s tone.   
  
“You _should_ be,” Ryou snaps. He re-wets the cloth—a bit of his vest, Shiro realizes—and goes back to trying to combat Shiro’s fever, but there’s a frantic, frightened edge to his movements. “Y’know, when I made that crack about us alternating on injuries? I was fucking _joking_ , Shiro.”  
  
“Could’ve specified then,” Shiro says. He doesn’t push Ryou away, this time, and just lets him help however he’s able.   
  
Ryou does what he can, continuing to bathe Shiro’s forehead and throat with cool water, but it’s about all he can do. Shiro’s past the point where a little rest and water will fix the problem, and they both know it. What he _needs_ is a cryo-pod, but with nearly four quintents before the team might even show up for a rescue, the odds of that happening are pretty unlikely. They might as well be stranded on an unforgiving planet with little hope of rescue, for all the others know.   
  
“Getting serious deja vu right now,” Shiro mutters out loud.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Ryou tells him, as he presses his metal fingers to Shiro’s forehead again. “You don’t have a hole in your side, this time. Still too hot,” he adds, under his breath.   
  
Shiro’s not even remotely surprised that Ryou knew exactly what he was talking about. He sighs. “It’s not going to go away in less than a varga,” he murmurs. “We both know that.”  
  
“Maybe not, but I might be able to reduce it enough that we can at least move you,” Ryou argues. He seems desperate to cling to that thin hope, so Shiro doesn’t contradict him.  
  
But time isn’t on their side, and all too soon the last of the howling winds just outside the cave start growing weaker. If the pattern holds, there’ll be a half hour or so of acidic rain after that, and then it’s open season on Shiroganes. Ryou seems to know it, judging by the way he keeps glancing anxiously at the cavern mouth. They need to be ready to move the moment the weather lets up, but there’s no way Shiro can, not in this state.   
  
Time for a new plan, then.  
  
“Ryou,” he mutters. “I need you do do me a favor…”  
  
Ryou presses his hand over Shiro’s mouth with remarkable speed. “So help me,” he says, giving Shiro a warning look, “if you tell me to take over Voltron, I’m going to smack you myself. And I was almost starting to believe that mantra of yours about us not being the same—”  
  
Shiro manages to jerk his head away, and gives Ryou a hurt look. “I would never do that,” he insists softly, momentarily sidetracked. “Ask you to lead, maybe. You know how. But I would never ask you to be _me_ again. Not after how hard you’ve been working to figure out who you want to be.”  
  
Ryou seems only moderately reassured by that, and narrows his eyes. “You’re not going to ask how _I’m_ doing, are you?”  
  
“No,” Shiro grumbles. “Will you just let me…” He winces as a wave of dizziness rolls over him, but that seems enough to quiet Ryou. When it passes, Shiro says, “Take the armor.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Armor.” He taps weakly against the claw-scored black ‘v’ on his chest with his left hand. “It’s not doing me any good right now. Can’t make the most’ve it anymore. We swap clothes. You can use it better.”   
  
Ryou frowns. “You’re the one that’s hurt. If anyone needs the protection, it’s you.”  
  
“Let’s be real,” Shiro says softly. “If I’m in enough trouble I need armor for protection…I’m probably already as good as dead. Can’t run. Can’t fight. Won’t do me any good.” He looks Ryou in the eye. “You can use it better. Keep us both alive.”  
  
Ryou does not look happy at those words, but he’s not stupid either. He can see the wisdom in them. Even if he’d been weaker than Shiro at the start of all this, he’s definitely more mobile now. “Okay,” he agrees finally. “Fine. Let’s hurry.”   
  
Getting out of the armor itself is a little difficult in this state. There’s lots of hidden clasps and buttons of Altean make that keep it together, but Shiro feels so heavy and weak it’s hard to reach them all. Ryou helps him with those, and stacks the armor neatly to the side. Peeling out of the undersuit is even worse, with Shiro’s leg like it is; they have to unbind his wound again to get it off, and he’s almost thankful he can’t feel it.  
  
But eventually Shiro’s free of it, and dressed in Ryou’s dusty civilian gear, with his leg injury carefully re-wrapped. He feels too exposed in short sleeves, and without any armor to protect him from the harsh environments, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. The armor wouldn’t have done him any good, anyway.   
  
Ryou, for his part, dresses in the paladin gear in under a minute. He hasn’t worn the armor in months, but apparently he still remembers how to gear up on the way to the Black Lion, because it seems to be one of the few bits of muscle memory of Shiro’s that survived his illness.   
  
It’s strange, seeing Ryou in full black paladin gear. Shiro’s seen him wearing it before, back when he’d been dealing with his muscle atrophy recovery and Ryou had kept running Voltron missions for him. But back then, Ryou had been trying to imitate him as much as possible. Now it just emphasizes how starkly identical he is to Shiro physically, when his graying hair is hidden by the helmet and his slimmer build is buried beneath the armor. It feels wrong, when he could _be_ Shiro— _Shiro_ would mistake Ryou for himself—but he knows he _isn’t._   
  
Ryou seems to agree. He regards the black gauntlets on the backs of his hands and stares down at the black ‘v’ on his chest, and seems a little disturbed by it. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “For now this is all we’ve got, but if I’m going to be wearing this style of armor in the future on missions, when I’m _actually_ approved, I think I need a different color. This…this just feels weird, now.” And softer, so softly Shiro’s not sure if he’s supposed to hear it, he mutters, “Too easy to fall back into line like this.”  
  
Shiro whole-heartedly agrees. Maybe it’s the fever talking, but this is weirding him out more than a little too. Ryou’s definitely his own person, but it feels too much like he’s stepping back into Shiro’s role again. But he still tries to smile weakly at the words. “I consider that an improvement,” he says softly. “At least you don’t want my color anymore…”  
  
Ryou snorts at that.   
  
“What’d do you think you’ll pick?” Shiro asks. It feels like an important question, somehow.   
  
“I think I can think about that later,” Ryou says. “When we’re not this close to dying.”   
  
Shiro nods absently at that. It’s probably low priority; Ryou’s not wrong. Still, it would have been nice to know what color Ryou would have chosen for himself before Shiro dies.  
  
 _Not dying yet,_ he reminds himself. He doesn’t intend to give up so easily. But he also knows their chances are growing smaller by the tick. His, especially. Wounded prey can’t run far.   
  
Ryou seems to catch his thoughts, somehow. “Thanks for trusting me with this,” he says. He clenches his Olkari fist, testing the pull of the gauntlet on it, activating his ranged weaponry. Like with Shiro’s Galra arm, the glove dematerializes, and the armor adjusts to compensate for the Olkari firearm, with the pale green leaf-vein lines crawling up over the black and white gauntlet. Relieved, Ryou deactivates it, and then crouches in front of Shiro again. “I know you’re worried, but I’m going to get us both out of here.”  
  
“If you can,” Shiro agrees. “If you can’t…if it comes to it…leave me behind.”  
  
“What? No!” Ryou glares at him. “I told you, I don’t need you protecting me. I _need_ you to get your head in the game.”  
  
“This _is_ me getting my head in the game,” Shiro says. “I can’t move. That means I’m a potential liability.”   
  
Ryou scowls at him.   
  
“Relax, Ryou,” Shiro says tiredly. “I’m not gonna give up so easily. I’m trusting you to handle yourself. But if it comes to it…if there’s no other choice…” He shrugs. “Better one than none.”  
  
“Yeah? And what’re the others gonna do when I show up without you?” Ryou asks hotly. “What if the Black Lion doesn’t even want me as a pilot anymore, after I got sick? Are you even thinking this through?”  
  
“You survived before. You can do it again.” Shiro winces. “I’m not giving up yet. I’m going to fight to the end. I’m just saying. If it comes to it…”  
  
“It won’t.”  
  
“But if it does—“  
  
“It _won’t.”_   
  
Shiro sighs. “Make the right choice, Ryou,” he tries one last time. He doesn’t have the energy for this conversation anymore. He doesn’t want to die, but if it comes to it, he doesn’t want Ryou throwing his life away to save Shiro if it’s not an option. There’s overprotectiveness, and then there’s practicality.   
  
“I will,” Ryou says. He’s still scowling a little, but there’s worry underneath it. He reaches for the discarded bit of vest he’d been using prior to their clothing swap, wets it down, and starts carefully bathing Shiro’s forehead and throat with cool water once more. It feels soothing on his too-hot skin. Shiro’s eyes slide closed as he listens to the patter of acidic rain just outside their cave.   
  
“Hey.” Ryou taps the side of his face gently. “Stay awake a little longer, okay? We should talk strategy.”   
  
Shiro hums in agreement, and wearily forces his eyes open. “Need to move,” he says softly.  
  
“You can’t,” Ryou says. “Shiro, you can barely keep your eyes open. This infection is…I’m not going to lie to you, it’s bad. You can’t move, not like this. And I can’t carry you very far, even with the jetpack to help. We won’t get far, and we’ll leave an easy trail for him to follow.”  
  
“Alright,” Shiro agrees. “Then run.”   
  
Ryou flicks him in the forehead, not enough to really hurt while still making it clear exactly what he thinks of _that_ suggestion. “Ow,” Shiro says, and scowls at him.  
  
“I’m not abandoning you. Don’t ever suggest that again.” Ryou sighs. “I’m thinking I’ll survey the area. See if I can’t set out some traps. If you can’t go anywhere, we need to fortify. Make him regret trying to get close. Protect this place until we can get help.”   
  
It’s a foolish plan, and they both know it. Xencherak won’t be held off so easily as that. He’s got better weaponry and all the advantages in this game. Even if he hadn’t, Xencherak’s pride is on the line—it’s the third quintent, the last in their challenge, and he’s not going to let them run any longer. Even if they survive today, Xencherak will scorch the earth to kill them before any rescue can come. Trying to fortify is suicide.   
  
He sums up his thoughts in one nice, easy sentence: “He has grenades.”   
  
“Which he agreed to not use, for the duration of his game,” Ryou says. “Not sportsmanlike, remember?”   
  
“That won’t hold forever,” Shiro says. “He’s not letting us leave alive. If we beat him at his game, he still has two quintents to ignore the rules and outright murder us for winning.”  
  
“I’ll figure something out,” Ryou says. “I’ve…I’ve got some ideas.”   
  
Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Gonna share those?”  
  
“No. It’d only make you worry.”  
  
“Dangerous ideas, then,” Shiro says. “Don’t risk yourself for nothing.”  
  
“You’re not nothing,” Ryou says sharply. Then he sighs, and reapplies the wet cloth again. “Look. When I was sick, would you have just left me behind?”  
  
“No,” Shiro says, without a shred of hesitation.   
  
“Well, I’m made from the same mold as you, even if we’re different now. Don’t expect something different of me,” Ryou says. “We’re in trouble at this point, and this guy is dangerous. I’m willing to take greater risks to try and get us both out of this mess. What’s the worst that could happen, at this point? He’s going to kill us both, anyway. If I die trying to save our lives, nothing’s changed. If I gamble and win, with both live.”   
  
Shiro grumbles, but Ryou’s not really wrong. They’re backed into a corner at this point. Nothing else could make it much worse, and if Ryou’s not going to leave him behind to save himself…”Be careful,” he murmurs. “Someone needs to make it back.”   
  
“I will be. Promise.”   
  
Shiro’s not really sure how much time passes after that. He doesn’t really have a way to track the time anymore, without his helmet, and it’s still dark out, with only the bioluminescent moss and Shiro’s—now Ryou’s—glowing armor to see by. Shiro drifts in and out of focus. His head’s starting to hurt, and he still feels hot and weak, no matter how many times Ryou replaces the wet cloth or coaxes him into drinking a little more water.  
  
But he is aware of the moment when the patter of acidic rain outside slows to a halt, and the first  hints of the sky outside slipping from black to gray start to arrive. Ryou’s aware of it, too. He pauses in his ministrations, and glances back at the cavern mouth. “Showtime,” he murmurs under his breath.  
  
Shiro doesn’t protest when Ryou pulls him back to the farthest corner of the cave. There’s a slight divot in the shape of the cavern, and it won’t leave him immediately visible from the entrance. If Xencherak just peeks in while passing through, he probably won’t spot Shiro. Shiro doubts the man would be anything but thorough in his hunt, but if it gives Ryou a little piece of mind, he won’t argue. He lays down in the divot and allows Ryou to wet the cloth one last time and leave it across his forehead, where it might still help to combat the fever.  
  
“Alright,” Ryou says. “I’m going to leave, but I’m not really _leaving,_ okay? I’ll still be in the area. If you’re in trouble, yell, send up a signal, something—anything you can, and I’ll come. Okay?”  
  
Shiro doubts he’ll even have the chance, weak as he is, but he nods. He doesn’t actually intend to, of course—if he’s in that much trouble, he’s already dead, and nothing Ryou can do will save him. He won’t put Ryou at risk for that.  
  
Ryou seems to know exactly what he’s thinking, because his left hand snatches up Shiro’s wrist, and he squeezes. “Hey. I’m serious. Promise me. For real. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Shiro agrees, grimacing. “I swear it.”  
  
“Good.” This time the squeeze to his fingers is more reassuring. “We’re gonna make it out of this. Both of us.”  
  
Shiro offers a weak smile. “You picked a real bad time to start developing optimism,” he says weakly. “You do know that, right?”   
  
Ryou manages to smirk back. “It’s not optimism so much as saying out loud exactly what needs to be heard. And anyway, I inherited it, so you’ve only got yourself to blame.”  
  
Shiro snorts. “Be careful,” he warns, one last time.   
  
“I will be,” Ryou says. And then he’s gone, leaving Shiro alone in the dark with only the bioluminescent moss for company.  
  
He drifts, after that. He’s not really sure how much time passes. In his little divot in the cave he can’t really make out the sky, since he can’t see the entrance well. But he can see the bright reflections of the sun on the watering hole’s surface, enough to eventually tell him the sun has risen. Ryou doesn’t come back, and Shiro desperately hopes it’s because he’s escaping on his own. He’d forgive Ryou in a heartbeat for leaving him behind if he found a way out. The alternatives—that Ryou’s wandering returned without his medication, or that Xencherak might have found Ryou first—are too frightening to contemplate.  
  
But exhaustion and illness override fear, and eventually not even Shiro’s worries can keep him conscious. He slides under into an exhausted sleep, unable to keep himself awake anymore.  
  
He awakens to someone nudging him in the side. “Hmm?” he murmurs softly, blinking awake. His vision is bleary with sleep, and he feels awful, hotter than before and terribly dizzy. The cloth feels bone dry and scratchy on his forehead, and the rest of him feels like he’s burning. The cavern ceiling spins above him.  
  
“Hello, Champion. You hid well, but not well enough.”   
  
Shiro jerks fully awake with a start, but can’t even attempt to rise before Xencherak’s foot comes down on his chest, holding him in place. He claws at it weakly, alarmed at how hard it is to breathe with even that weight on him, but he lacks the strength to shove Xencherak off.   
  
Xencherak smiles down at him—that frightening, tooth-filled smile of aggression. His gun is with him, but strapped over his shoulder for now. Clearly he doesn’t view Shiro as a threat, and even if he did, one of his hands rests casually on the hilt of his hunting knife, and that will still be more than enough to finish Shiro off. One of his other hands rests on his hip, near several round objects Shiro recognizes as grenades, and the second set of arms are crossed, almost in disappointment. He blends astonishingly well into the stone in his hunting gear, and only the blinking blue light of a small, familiar square object at his belt makes him stand out at all.  
  
Xencherak _tsks,_ an odd hissing noise that goes well with his snaky demeanor. “I can smell the bouldernoose venom in your wound,” he says, breathing deeply. “I can taste the fever on your breath. What a pity, Champion. This isn’t the way I’d have chosen your end. I’d have preferred a more interesting final hunt with you at your peak, not to find you in a burrow dying of toxins. Ah, well. I suppose that is nature. Not all hunts can end so gloriously.”  
  
Xencherak finally takes his foot off of Shiro’s chest. Shiro gasps for breath, but manages to spit out a moment later, “I’m sorry to…fucking disappoint you…bastard.”   
  
“Yes, well,” Xencherak drawls. “It is what it is. The hunt’s still been entertaining. I’ve never had anyone make it to the third quintent. Escaping in the middle of a drystorm! Using it to cover your tracks! A fine move, Champion. Unprecedented.  I’ll still remember this challenge for decafeebs to—“  
  
He halts suddenly, and his eyes narrow. “You,” he says abruptly, “are not Champion.”  
  
The accusation is so ridiculous that despite everything, Shiro chokes out a breathy, hysterical laugh. Xencherak stares at him like he’s lost his mind, and maybe Shiro has. “I’m Champion,” Shiro says, and it’s not even a lie. “Get it over with. I can’t stop you.”   
  
He can’t even call for help. Even if Ryou’s in the area, he’s so short of breath there’s no way he’d be heard inside this cave. He’s dead. There’s nothing he can do to save himself. It’s over.  
  
Xencherak’s hands flash down, but they aren’t full of hunting knife or anything else dangerous. Instead, he snatches Shiro up by the front of his vest, and hauls him up until they’re eye to eye. Xencherak’s species is naturally a little taller than Shiro is, and it means his toes hang an inch or so off the ground, and his left leg in particular hangs like dead weight. With his other set of hands, Xencherak grabs Shiro’s chin and twists his head back and forth cruelly.  
  
“No,” he growls. “You aren’t Champion. Champion had graying hairs. You do not. You are the nestmate—the black paladin. You _switched.”_   
  
His irritation dwindles, replaced by that frightening, sly, fanged smile, and he laughs. His clawed hands release Shiro’s jaw, although the hunter makes no move to put him down. “Oh, _clever,_ Champion. What an interesting maneuver. The body double always has an endless use for a misdirect, doesn’t it?” His smile turns hungry. “There’s no end to the tricks he could use to live. He earned that title of Champion for a _reason.”_  
  
“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “He really did.” And he strikes.  
  
His Galra hand is a little more sluggish than usual, with Shiro’s concentration weakened by the fever, but once it’s lit up it’s still as deadly as ever. He snaps it out towards Xencherak’s face, trying to claw at his eyes or reach his throat.   
  
For being sick, he’s fast, but Xencherak is faster. His hood flares wide, bright colored and sharp in Shiro’s fevered vision, and he jerks his head back. Shiro’s burning fingers just barely brush at Xencherak’s hood, enough to make scales sizzle and his opponent screech in pain.  
  
“Clever,” Xencherak says, and then slams him hard into the cave wall.   
  
Shiro’s whole body bursts with pain as sharp, jagged rock edges dig into his back and spine, and his head smashes into stone. Bright spots dance in front of his vision, and he can barely make anything out. He claws out wildly with both hands, Galra hand still burning, to try and fend off his opponent when he can’t see and can barely focus. He hears Xencherak screech as his intensely hot fingers scratch at something—more scales, and fabric, from the smell—and then they catch on something hard. His metal fingers close around it automatically, struggling for purchase.  
  
“Enough,” Xencherak snaps. There’s a dizzying whirlwind of movement as Shiro is dragged away from the stone wall, and then his head his shoved under the water of the pool in the center of the chamber.  
  
Shiro gasps, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. There’s too much water in his nose and mouth, and he chokes on it, trying to push himself out of the pool. Even on his own, he’s weak enough from the fever that escaping would be a struggle. But he can feel Xencherak’s hands on the back of his skull and shoulders, forcing him down, and he can’t escape.  
  
He panics. It’s human instinct, and he can’t _breathe._ He thrashes wildly, struggling to free himself, scraping at the stone and the water with his hands. His left fingers feel bloodied and scraped raw on hard stone immediately. His metal fingers don’t hurt, but he can feel the water sizzling where he’s lit up. And still he thrashes, and fights to breathe, fights for _air_ , but the pressure won’t let up and he can’t—he can’t—  
  
Just when he’s about to give in, the pressure is released, and Xencherak drags him back above the surface. He’s flung away from the pool, back towards the entrance to the cave, and hits the stone hard on his side before sliding to a halt. It hurts, but he’s too busy gasping for air, sweet, blessed _air,_ to notice how much the rest of his body is suffering. He curls on his side, shaking and coughing, struggling to see through his spotty vision. The sunlight gleams over his shoulder off of the water glittering like crystals, off of something glittering gray and blue in his metal palm, off of Xencherak’s scales and firearm as he stalks steadily closer, and everything is too bright for him to handle.  
  
“That should take the fight out of you, for the moment,” the hunter says. “Are you going to try that again?”  
  
Shiro coughs, and breathes, and stays limp and unmoving on his side.  
  
“Good,” Xencherak says. “So. Did Champion abandon you? Answer truthfully, now.”  
  
Shiro swallows, and croaks, “Yes. I’m dying. We knew it. I’d hold him back.” He hopes it’s true. If Ryou comes back now there’s nothing he could do to save Shiro.   
  
Xencherak crouches next to him. Idly, Shiro notices a few finger burn marks on his lower left arm, and is distantly pleased that he managed to at least get _a_ hit in before this bastard kills him. The hunter regards him for a moment curiously, tilting his head. Then he says, “No. Galra officers would do so, perhaps. But you are nestmates. You defended each other too strongly when I first proposed the challenge. He’s around here somewhere. He need only be flushed out.”   
  
He smiles again, that awful, fang-filled smile that makes something deep and primal inside of Shiro want to get up and run. “Sometimes, in hunting, you need bait. I think you will be perfect for this one last task before we finish our hunt.”   
  
Xencherak’s lower set of arms reach out and snatch Shiro by the collar of his vest. Shiro tries to push him off, but one of Xencherak’s topmost hands grabs Shiro’s metal forearm and holds it to one side, and his burning fist curls uselessly far away from anything it could hit. The other upper hand smacks Shiro soundly across the face, hard enough that his already fever-dizzy head spins harder, and he goes limp. He can’t stop Xencherak from dragging him over dirt and stone to the world outside.   
  
It’s midday on Rembeliss as they emerge. The sun his high in the sky and far too bright, and the heat beating off the stones outside _hurts_ when Shiro is already burning alive inside. It drains the last of the energy from him as Xencherak drags them far enough from the cave and the mountain that they’re standing on the edge of one of the wide, savannah-like valleys. It’s too far from any form of shelter for Shiro to run to, if he miraculously managed to escape, and it’s very, very visible.   
  
Exactly like bait was supposed to be, of course.  
  
“Call him,” Xencherak orders, when he finally stops. He hauls Shiro upright again to hold him at eye level by his collar.   
  
Shiro can barely lift his head, between the infection and the beating his body has taken, but he drags his eyes up to look the hunter square in the eye. “No,” he hisses, very softly.  
  
Xencherak’s eyes narrow. _“Call him,”_ he repeats, more insistently.   
  
“No,” Shiro says again, just as stubbornly.   
  
He knows it’s not what he promised. He knows he’d sworn to Ryou that he’d call for help if he was in trouble. But that hadn’t taken into account that it was what Xencherak _wanted_. And Shiro refuses to break for this bastard, not if it’s to draw Ryou into a disadvantage. Not if it means Xencherak _wins._   
  
Xencherak hisses at him—actually hisses like a snake, showing gleaming fangs—and snaps, “Fine, then. There are other ways.” And he digs his fingers deeply into the remains of Shiro’s right arm, right where flesh meets metal.  
  
Shiro screams before he can stop himself. What’s left of his right arm has always been sensitive, and tormented deliberately like that, it _hurts_. He screams, and his metal fist lights up again, fingers digging harder into his own artificial palm so badly he can _smell_ burning metal and hear the creaking of damaged parts. He screams, and tries to thrash away, but he’s so weak and drained of energy he can’t do much more than mildly inconvenience his attacker.  
  
Then it’s over, and he sags in relief when Xencherak removes his fingers. Distantly, he finds this familiar. Not the attack, not the place, but the situation.  
  
 _Sendak,_ he remembers vaguely. Sendak had tried to torture him to get at Pidge. He’d told her not to listen. It had been a trap from the beginning. _Please, please let Ryou still have that memory_ , he begs the universe. _Don’t let him fall for this. Please. He’ll die._   
  
He hears a disembodied voice, and for a moment he swears the universe is answering. Then he realizes it’s not any sort of god or higher being—it’s Xencherak. Or, more specifically, the communicator mounted on his shoulder, cleverly hidden in his hunting gear.   
  
_“Prime Exalt, sir,”_ the voice over the line says, _“there’s been a change—“_   
  
“Shut up, Sseret,” Xencherak snaps. “You know I do not like to be interrupted in my hunts.”   
  
_“But Prime Exalt, sir, please, the pala—“_  
  
 _“Enough,_ Sseret!” Xencherak snarls. Shiro can feel his fury in the way he shakes his captured prey; Shiro can’t help but moan at the way it jars his now wounded arm. “Unless you wish to suffer the same fate as Zenesath, I will hear no more of it!”   
  
He snaps the communicator off, furious, and turns his attention back to Shiro. “Champion isn’t here. Call him, or I will make you again.”   
  
Shiro knows it’s going to hurt like hell, but even so, he manages to choke out in a voice gone hoarse from screaming, “No.”   
  
Xencherak scowls, and digs his fingers into Shiro’s arm once more. Shiro knows it’s coming, but even prepared, he still can’t stop himself from screaming. His cries are fainter, hoarse and weaker than before, but still loud enough to be heard at a distance. There’s no way Ryou’s missed it, not if he did as he’d said and stuck close by.  
  
Xencherak knows it, too. “Come out, Champion,” he calls loudly, when he finally takes his hand away from Shiro’s arm, and the pain blessedly fades from sharp and agonizing to dull and throbbing. “I can do this all day. I can make this last _vargas_ if I must. Would you have that for your nestm—“  
  
He jerks suddenly in mid-speech as a pale green blast of energy arcs from the mountain, aimed for the side of his head. Xencherak dodges it, although narrowly, dragging Shiro with him when he moves. Shiro can’t help but gasp in pain at the sharp movement as it jars his wounded arm and shakes his aching head, and groan when he realizes what this means.   
  
_No. No, Ryou. You should have stayed away._   
  
“A very good shot, Champion!” Xencherak calls. “A lesser man might have been killed!” Moving shockingly fast, he spins Shiro around to face outward, and adjusts his angle to put Shiro between the direction of the blast, and himself. Attempting to shoot Xencherak anywhere vital will mean going straight through Shiro’s chest, first. “But it failed, and now you’ve lost your surprise. What now, Champion?”  
  
“Put him down. Alive,” comes Ryou’s distant call. Shiro can barely see him at this distance. He’s still a little ways up the slope of the mountain, and taking cover behind a boulder, leaving only his black and white helmet and one of his arms and shoulder guards exposed. His right hand is outstretched in their direction, but not active—he won’t risk taking a shot with Shiro in the way.  
  
Which had been Xencherak’s intention, of course. “Why should I?” he asks. Shiro can’t see his face anymore, but he swears the hunter sounds amused. “He is my prey, and by right, mine to kill. He’ll make just as good a meat shield dead as alive. He’s served his purpose among the living now.”   
  
Shiro clenches his jaw at that. He struggles against Xencherak’s grip, but he’s completely spent, and barely manages to lift his left arm to hook around one of Xencherak’s wrists. His Galra hand is still held uselessly to the side by another of Xencherak’s arms, and it’s the only thing he has left to try and free himself with. He’s helpless. He’s _dead._   
  
_Run, Ryou,_ he mentally pleads. _Get out of here. Now._   
  
As if by some miracle, it’s almost like Ryou hears him. “If you don’t put him down alive,” Ryou calls, “You’ll lose. I’ll run.”   
  
This seems to give Xencherak pause. “Run?” he asks after a moment. He sounds bemused. “Aren’t you supposed to avenge your dead nestmate?”  
  
“What good will that do then?” Ryou asks. “He’ll still be dead. No, I’ll run. I’ll disappear into the wilderness, and you’ll never get your second kill. I’ll escape.”  
  
“Impossible,” Xencherak scoffs.   
  
“Then I’ll die trying to break free. I’ll throw myself to the ocean, or the bouldernoose, if I have to,” Ryou says. “But _you_ won’t get us both. Is that how you want your glorious hunt against Champion and the black paladin to end? You only manage to catch one because he’s sick, and the other steals your kill? Where’s the thrill you crave then?”  
  
 _Give me something to fight for_ , the words all but scream. _Give me incentive to stand my ground. Give me a reason to still play your game. Buy yourself a chance to kill both Champion and the black paladin the way you’d wanted._   
  
It’s clever. Ryou’s trying to fight with the diplomacy he’s been training for just as much as the combat skills he shouldn’t have to use yet. In another situation, it might have been smart. Now, it’s just suicide. _Don’t just threaten to run, Ryou,_ Shiro wants to scream. _Do it! Get out of here! Now!_   
  
And for a moment, Shiro’s not even sure it will take. He can feel Xencherak’s fingers digging harder into his vest, and hear the hunter’s sharp fingers scraping on his metal wrist as he squeezes harder in anger. Xencherak hisses again, low and warning and dangerous, and it sends something primal and instinctive in Shiro’s head gibbering to _run_ , to not have the predator at his back, to protect himself, anything, _anything_ , but get away from it _now._   
  
But then he tosses Shiro aside, like an unwanted toy. Shiro cries out as he lands badly on his right side, sending bolts of pain shooting up the remains of his arm. He rolls and skids on the dusty stone, until he finally slides to a halt, some five feet away. Everything is spinning, and he feels dizzy and hot and disoriented. It takes him far longer than it should for him to pull himself together enough to raise his head and focus on his surroundings.   
  
Xencherak’s gun is no longer strapped to his back; now it’s in his first set of hands, already leveled at Ryou’s position and firing. The first three shots crack off the massive boulder Ryou ducks behind, and Xencherak hisses angrily.  
  
“Make this worth my while, Champion!” he snarls. “If all you do is hide, the gun turns on your nestmate!”  
  
That’s enough incentive to get Ryou to move. He dives out behind the boulder, jetpack kicking on to give him the extra boost of speed he needs to get to the next one. Xencherak fires twice, and misses both times, but too narrowly for Shiro to be relieved. The hunter is an _excellent_ shot, and could easily give Lance a run for his money as a sniper.   
  
Ryou has his attention, though, and Shiro struggles to focus on getting away. Ryou’s trapped in the fight until Shiro’s not a hostage anymore. If he can get out of the situation, Ryou can run.   
  
But it’s easier said than done. He’s exhausted. It’s hard to focus. He still can’t feel his left leg or hip, and the numbness is spreading up his side now. His right arm above his prosthetic is in agony, and his whole body is sore and still too hot. He can’t climb to his feet. He can’t even get to his hands and knees to crawl. So he does what he can to drag himself, trying to move towards the closest boulder while still keeping an eye on the fight.  
  
Xencherak doesn’t notice his pathetic attempts at an escape. He’s still focused on Ryou, who dives and dodges between boulders on the mountain like he’s the target in the most fucked up shooting gallery game in existence. Occasionally Ryou will take a shot back, outstretching his hand towards Xencherak to fire a pulse of pale green energy in the hunter’s direction. Shiro can feel the rumble of stone against his chest and hands when the blasts strike rock, every time Xencherak narrowly dodges.   
  
They’ve hit each other a few times, though superficially. Xencherak has several more burns in his clothing and scales, and Shiro can see the growing cracks and chips in the paladin armor. But of the two, Ryou is definitely the worse off. Shiro knows that armor had already taken a lot of punishment, and he knows Ryou has, too. This isn’t going to last forever. At best, it’s stalling.   
  
Xencherak knows it, too. “You can’t keep this up forever, Champion,” he drawls. He calmly aims and fires when Ryou ducks out behind another boulder. The shot cuts a dark line in the dusty red-black of Ryou’s upper armor below the shoulder, and Ryou stumbles for a fraction of a second before he reaches his shelter. “Eventually you’ll tire. Eventually you’ll run out of places to hide.”   
  
Ryou moves again, but this time it’s different. This time, he doesn’t bolt for the nearest cover. This time, he leaps farther down the slope, charging in the direction of both Xencherak and Shiro.   
  
Xencherak laughs. “A forward assault? You’ve lost your mind, just like your Galra captors,” he chortles, as he aims.   
  
He fires. Ryou doesn’t dodge—instead, he snaps his left arm up, and the energy shield blinks into place, taking the hit. Xencherak looks surprised, but fires a second time. A third. Ryou doesn’t stumble and the shield absorbs both of those as well, although Shiro’s not sure how much more it can take. The storms had already buffeted it significantly.  
  
In the end, it doesn’t matter. “Hiding gets you nowhere!” Xencherak snarls, as he lowers the rifle and aims—at Ryou’s feet, not at the shield.   
  
_“No!”_ Shiro yells, weak and soft but no less fully of frantic worry.  
  
But Ryou isn’t there anymore when Xencherak shoots. He’s finally reached his real goal—another boulder close to the bottom of the mountain slope. He doesn’t duck behind it for cover. Instead, he leaps to dodge Xencherak’s shot, and plants his feet firmly on the stone. He ricochets off of its surface in a move that he’s almost certainly learned from Keith, and kicks on his jetpack to launch himself higher into the air.   
  
Ryou uses the maneuver well. Keith would use the momentum to throw himself at a target and close the distance. Ryou uses a variation of it, but he gains height, not distance. The moment Xencherak looks up to try and follow him, and squints, Shiro suddenly understands why. Using the height and the sun to blind his opponent—that’s certainly a move he learned from Lance, to prevent counter-sniping.  
  
Xencherak fires, but his shot is wildly off target. Ryou’s is not. The jetpack slows his speed enough that he can fire from the air, and his charge had let him get close enough for a decent shot. Shiro can’t see him very well with the sun in his own eyes, but he does see the green pulse smash into Xencherak’s gun, sending it flying from his hands. Shiro can feel the rumble of the blast through the stone against his chest, from where he’s still crawling.   
  
Xencherak laughs, a wild, deranged hissing sound. “Brilliant, Champion!” he screams. “Excellent! Truly this will be a hunt to remember!” One of his hands hangs at his side, damaged from the shot. Another drops to the knife at his belt, and a third drops to the round charges hanging at his side that Shiro recognizes as his grenades.   
  
Oh, _no._ The fight’s not even close to over.  
  
Ryou lands on the stone at the base of the mountain, stumbling as he does, and Shiro can tell he’s hitting his limit. He’s pushed himself too far already. There’s not much more he can take. _“Look out!”_ he yells, as loud as he can—still breathy and weak—as Xencherak snaps the first of the grenades free from his belt, and lobs it in Ryou’s direction.  
  
Ryou’s eyes go wide, and he hurls himself to the side, kicking on his jetpack again for extra speed. The grenade hits the base of the mountain and a large boulder, bouncing close to where Ryou had been, and bursts. Shiro throws his hands over his head to try and shield his ears and skull as the boulder explodes, raining gravel down over the entire battleground. He can _feel_ the explosion reverberating up through the stone, rumbling and shaking, louder and louder. It doesn’t feel like it’s stopping.   
  
Shiro frowns, cracking his eyes open once he feels the last of the bits of stone finish raining down on him. No, it _isn’t_ stopping. He can still feel the trembling—strong enough now that his metal fingers are clinking faintly as they’re shaken—even though the concussive blast has finished.   
  
Ryou’s on the ground, but he rolls to his feed admirably, and takes a weak shot at Xencherak with his Olkari arm. The shot goes harmlessly wide, and Xencherak laughs. “Losing your edge? Pity.”  
  
“I survived your _cheating,_ that’s a start,” Ryou snarls back. To Xencherak, he probably sounds rebellious. To Shiro, he sounds exhausted. Exhausted, and distracted. He frowns. Distracted by what? Not him, he hopes—  
  
The shaking in the ground gets stronger. Shiro can feel it through his entire body now, and it makes his head swim and his dizziness worse. Oh, god, he hopes it’s not an earthquake. If it is, they’re doomed. If they’re lucky, it will take Xencherak down with them—  
  
But Xencherak looks just as confused at the sudden turn of events as Shiro is, and frowns. “My pulse grenade wasn’t that strong,” he says. And then his eyes widen, staring up at the mountain, and he snarls, “What did you _do,_ Champion? Are you a fool? They’ll kill us _all!”_  
  
“Long memories, and longer grudges,” Ryou says, “They won’t like me, but they’ll _hate_ you.”  
  
Shiro follows Xencherak’s gaze despite himself, and his own eyes go wide. The mountain is _moving._ For a moment he swears it’s a rockslide—that a dozen boulders are rolling down towards them to crush them, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. Then he realizes they’re not boulders at all. They’re _alive._ There’s a dozen bouldernoose rushing down the slopes towards them, growing ever closer. The first one howls in anger as it catches sight of them, and the others join in, and Shiro can feel them through the stone just as much as he can hear them with his ears.   
  
_Stupid ideas, he said,_ Shiro thinks, with growing horror. _Xencherak warned us they’d be out for blood. Ryou brought in a wildcard. This entire fight was just a stall for time!_  
  
Xencherak no longer pays either of them any attention. The next of his grenades his hurled not at Ryou, but in the direction of the bouldernoose. The blast takes one of the massive creatures down, and it screams as it collapses, still rolling and sliding down the mountainside on its rocky carapace but no longer actively charging. But the sent of blood and the death of one of their own seems to send the rest of the bouldernoose into a frenzy, and they howl angrily as they charge straight for Xencherak. The hunter dives for his gun, frenzied and intense.   
  
Ryou takes advantage of their enemy’s distraction. He doesn’t attack—instead he makes a beeline straight for Shiro. He doesn’t even stop as he reaches Shiro, just reaches down enough to secure his hands under Shiro’s arms, hauling him upright and half dragging him along. It hurts, especially when Ryou kicks on the jetpack again for an extra boost of speed, and Shiro gasps in pain despite himself.  
  
“Sorry,” Ryou pants. He’s breathing hard, exhausted and strained, but he doesn’t stop moving. “I know it hurts, no choice—“  
  
“Keep going,” Shiro says, through grit teeth.   
  
Ryou keeps dragging him along, and Shiro keeps an eye on their opponent. The bouldernoose have hit the base of the mountain now, and charge for Xencherak, who’s retrieved his gun. He holds his ground, frighteningly intense as he aims at the first of the creatures and fires. The high-intensity rifle cuts a thick line straight through the armored head of the lead bouldernoose, and it crashes to the ground immediately on its side. Several of the other creatures stumble over it or into it, yowling, and the muddied stampede buys Xencherak enough time to take down a second creature with a frighteningly well placed shot, and a third.   
  
But even with a third of their frenzied herd depleted, the bouldernoose aren’t deterred, and they are deadly. More than that, they’re angry, in a full on berserker rage driven higher with the scent of blood in their noses and a deep grudge in their bones. Xencherak finally realizes that even he, as good a hunter as he is, can’t take the beasts on, and abandons his pride as he turns to flee.  
  
He’s too late. With hungry shrieks, the creatures fall on him, thick crystal-cable tongues snapping out and dragging him back. Within seconds he’s obscured in the writhing mess of stony bodies and the clouds of dust they send up.   
  
But Shiro can still hear him screaming.   
  
Then he can’t see any of it at all anymore. Ryou drags him behind some form of shelter—one of the odd alien termite mounts, Shiro realizes, although the insects are intelligent enough to have disappeared into their nest at the rumbling of the bouldernoose. Crouched behind the mound, they can’t see the predators anymore, and the bouldernoose are too stupid to follow the dragging trail of Shiro’s legs in the dust to their location.  
  
Ryou seems to think the same. He pulls Shiro as close as possible and curls around him tightly, an odd inverse to the protection Shiro had provided during the sandstorms. “Stay quiet,” he murmurs, bending close to Shiro’s ear to speak as low as possible. “I don’t know how they hunt, but they can’t see us, and I’m hoping the bug smell masks our scent.”   
  
Staying quiet is hard when all Shiro wants to do is groan in pain, but he clenches his jaw tightly against it. “What’s the plan?” he says, as softly as he can. “Xencherak’s dead. Please tell you have a way to make sure we don’t follow him.”  
  
“Um. Well. Still working on that part.”  
  
“You _didn’t_ have a plan? When you brought an entire herd of grudge-bearing things that want to eat us?” Shiro hisses, louder than intended.   
  
Ryou claps a hand over his mouth immediately. “It’s a work in progress,” he hisses. “There wasn't supposed to be a herd. I only tagged a few—I didn’t realize they’d call friends. He wasn’t wrong, they definitely remember us. But hey, Xencherak’s not a problem anymore.”  
  
Shiro _wants_ to snap that it doesn’t help them much if they get themselves killed a dobosh later, and even 'a few' bouldernoose is too many, but Ryou keeps his left hand over Shiro’s mouth. It’s probably for the best; between the beating Xencherak had given him and his fever-inducing infection, he’s more liable to make involuntary noises than not.   
  
The thought leaves him exhausted, and he sags wearily against Ryou. He hurts everywhere, and his head’s spinning, and he’s so damn hot. However this ends, it’s not up to him anymore.   
  
“—o no no, Shiro, c’mon, focus, stay with me here—“  
  
“Mmm?” he hums softly, against Ryou’s gauntlet.   
  
“C’mon. C’mon, I need you to just focus for a little bit longer. Hang on just a little longer, okay?” Ryou says. He’s trying to sound confident, but Shiro can hear the exhaustion in his voice. The tremor of fear. “I’ll get us out of this. Just—just give me a second—“  
  
“You should run,” he tries to tell Ryou, but it comes out as muffled and unintelligible thanks to Ryou’s hand. He tries to push the hand away, to push Ryou away, but Ryou’s grip on him only tightens. Shiro can feel him shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s from exertion, or fear, or the rumbling of the bouldernoose in the distance.   
  
The tremors in the ground feel stronger, and Ryou curses softly. Shiro revises his opinion on the shaking. “They hunt by something else,” Shiro tries to say—it feels strangely important—but Ryou’s _still_ covering his mouth.   
  
Then the first of the bouldernoose stomps around the termite mount, and fixes its eyes on them. Shiro stares into them, and in a distant sort of way, realizes they’re about to die. Ryou recognizes it too, and removes his hand from Shiro’s mouth to curl around him tighter, trying to shield him even now. It’s useless, but Shiro appreciates the effort.   
  
The creature opens its wide, toothy mouth and shrieks—  
  
—and much louder, and much more _familiar,_ comes the overwhelmingly welcome roar of a very angry Lion of Voltron.   
  
The Black Lion’s claws slam down on either side of them and their space-termite mound shelter, sending cascades of dust and sand everywhere, and whipping clouds of it so high it’s a miniature sandstorm in its own right. Shiro coughs and gags on the dust, and Ryou shifts round him, throwing up the mounted energy shield on his wrist to protect Shiro from the worst of the gusts. His own helmet closes against the cast-off winds, shielding him from the worst of it.  
  
“Close your eyes!” he orders immediately. Shiro does, wrenching his eyes shut, trying to ignore the gritty feel.   
  
But he can still hear, and feel, the Black Lion as it attacks. The clank of massive gears whirs above them, and the unmistakable thundering of metal and stone reverberates through Shiro’s entire body as one of its massive paws slams down at an opponent. A bouldernoose shrieks in surprise. Others roar in challenge, and the Lion answers, roaring right back as it turns almost ponderously over them. Shiro can feel each of its massive steps shuddering in his chest.   
  
The Black Lion was not really made for agile turns on the ground. Shiro can feel in his head now that it’s trying to be very careful, and not step on them, which is more difficult than it seems when as large as the Lion is. Two more bouldernoose nearly reach Shiro and Ryou both—Shiro can hear the creatures’ hungry screams coming ever closer—before the Lion can react. But he can also feel it remembering, thinking back to the fight against the veskills, when Keith had piloted it to attack much smaller creatures. It imitates now, lashing out with its massive tail to fling several of the creatures aside.   
  
And then Shiro hears the strong hum of a particle barrier, and suddenly the screams of the bouldernoose sound far more distant. The sand and dust starts to die down as well, and he hears Ryou deactivate his energy shield as he uncurls from around Shiro.   
  
“What…what the hell was _that?”_ Ryou gasps, stunned. “How did—how did it even—he _blocked_ us from the Black Lion, _how—“_  
  
Shiro cautiously opens his eyes. It still feels gritty and uncomfortable, but he can see again, and he blinks rapidly to try and clear his watering eyes as he looks around.   
  
The bouldernoose are still there, but they’re outside of the large purple bubble that’s sprung up around the Black Lion. They screech and claw at the barrier, but to no effect. The Black Lion itself stands over them, massive front paws on either side of their shelter. Seemingly satisfied with its work, the Lion settles itself down over them, nearly catloaf, and lowers its giant head to the ground, jaw open. Even laying down, the Black Lion’s neck still towers a good ten feet over their heads and the space termite mound, and its entire body is an additional second shield around them.   
  
_I am ready to depart when you are, paladin,_ it seems to say. Shiro’s not entirely sure which of them it’s speaking to, but he supposes it doesn’t much matter in the end.   
  
_“How?”_ Ryou repeats, still stunned. He’s staring up at the Black Lion curled over them protectively, expression full of shock. Shiro wonders if that’s exactly how he looked, when this happened with the veskills. “We couldn’t feel the Lion before. We couldn’t call it. Xencherak made sure of it with his quintessal silencer, and he kept that on him at all times!”   
  
The quintessal silencer…Shiro remembers the little blue and gray object when Xencherak first showed it off, at his lodge. He remembers it being on the hunter’s belt, when he’d attacked them, both times. But he doesn’t remember seeing it once they’d left the cave—just the grenades, and the knife.   
  
He does remember seeing it elsewhere, and suddenly it clicks in his head. He’s still flopped against Ryou, and shifts awkwardly, trying to bring his Galra hand around. It’s still in a fist, and clanks alarmingly when he tries to wrench it open.   
  
“What are you doing?” Ryou asks, frowning. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Hand,” Shiro says. “Open it.”   
  
Ryou does, prying Shiro’s metal fingers open. In his palm are the crushed remains of the blue and gray quintessal silencer. The delicate little gears and parts have been ground and melted into the little plates and seams of his Galra fingers. It jams several of them enough that they aren’t functioning properly, no doubt caused by his pained and panicked thrashing when Xencherak had tried to drown and torture him. Between that and the sand and grit ground into the joints from the miniature storm the Black Lion kicked up, his arm is barely functional.  
  
“Think Pidge and Hunk are gonna have to fix that,” Shiro mutters. “Can’t move’em.”   
  
Ryou stares down at the remnants of the silencer, but after a moment, he gives Shiro an incredulous look. “You’re feverish and you still managed _this?”_   
  
“Didn’t do it on purpose,” Shiro admits. “Sort’ve happened by accident. I didn’t even realize it until now….”   
  
Ryou stares at him for another long moment, and then starts laughing, a slightly hysterical edge to the sound. “Of course you didn’t. You couldn’t have felt it. That thing doesn’t feel anything…but it’s real good at breaking stuff.”   
  
“You just complimented my arm,” Shiro points out. He feels dizzy and weak, and he’s a little surprised to find the words much thicker in his mouth, now. He’s tired. And hot. And they’re not dying, and he just wants to rest, now.  
  
“Don’t get used to it,” Ryou says, but then his grin vanishes. “Hey—hey, no no, no sleeping, not yet. C’mon. Stay awake, Shiro. At least until we get into the Lion. You can do that, right? I know you can.”   
  
He’s not sure he can, but Ryou prods his face when his eyes start to slide closed, and he does it with the _metal_ hand, so it’s not like Shiro can ignore it. He drags his eyes open. “Okay. I’ll try.”  
  
“Okay. Good. I’ll help you.” Ryou drags himself to his feet, detangling from where he’d been curled around Shiro, and hauls Shiro upright with the Galra arm slung over his shoulder. Shiro immediately regrets even trying to go vertical; his head swims, and he sways, and he feels so _heavy._ He’s not sure Ryou can even take his weight. He can feel how badly Ryou’s shaking from the effort of trying to move him.  
  
But they’re both Shiroganes, and they’re both Champion, and neither of them got anywhere by giving up, so they give it everything they’ve got left. It takes every bit of focus Shiro has, but he manages to spend the last of his strength hobbling with Ryou to the Black Lion’s jaw, dragging his bad leg after him. Getting through the hatch into the actual cabin proper is a veritable nightmare in and of itself, and Shiro is pretty sure after everything they’ve lived through it’s the climb into the Lion that’s going to be the death of him. But they make it, somehow—and to the Lion’s credit, it keeps very, very still for them until they’re in. It seems to recognize its paladins are hurting badly, and even the slightest shake of its head will send them both reeling.   
  
They make it, eventually. Ryou wearily settles Shiro down next to the pilot’s chair, and Shiro collapses, the last of his strength spent. Ryou doesn’t settle down just then, although he stumbles as he makes for the first aid kit, and pries it out of the concealed compartment in the wall. His hands shake as he pulls out gauze, the Altean equivalent to disinfectant, and a bottle of clean water.   
  
“Probably a good thing you can’t feel this,” Ryou mutters, as he strips off the dirty, makeshift bandage on Shiro’s leg and sets to work treating it. He’s probably not wrong, but Shiro’s too dazed to really care at this point. He mostly ignores Ryou’s ministrations, and only reacts once, when Ryou wets down some of the bandages and spreads them over Shiro’s forehead again. The coolness is welcome, but startling after how much he’s burning.   
  
“Hang in there,” Ryou says finally. He finishes with the last of the treatments, and flips the space blanket in the kit over Shiro, before finally stumbling wearily to the pilot’s chair and sinking into it.  
  
Shiro watches distantly. He’s so damn tired, but even so, he can make out the shake of Ryou’s fingers as they reach out to wrap around the control levers. He’s not sure if it’s from emotion or exhaustion. Maybe both. Probably both.   
  
Ryou doesn’t say anything out loud; just closes his eyes and leans into the controls. Shiro wearily closes his own eyes, too tired to keep them open any longer. He can feel the Black Lion’s consciousness around him, even when he’s not fully connected in the pilot's seat, and that’s comforting enough for his rapidly sinking mind.   
  
And then he hears it: the unmistakable sound of pleading.  
  
 _Please,_ the voice begs. It sounds uncannily like Shiro’s own thoughts, when he’s running over something in his own head. _Please, listen to me. I don’t know if you’ll still accept me. I know you never really liked me much to begin with. I don’t know if my illness changed anything between us. It changed so much else for me. Maybe I’m not what you need anymore. But please, just this once, let me fly with you. You can reject me afterwards, if you need to, but please. Help me save him._   
  
And the deep, answering rumble of what is unmistakably the Lion answers. _Of course. We will save him._   
  
He can hear Ryou, Shiro realizes. He can hear his _mind._ Hear his _thoughts_. Like they’re in the same brain. Like they’re in Voltron, merged as one, but it’s only the Black Lion, bridging their individual minds. They’d both felt the Black Lion on the way to Rembeliss, but this is the first time they’ve felt each other so strongly. Shiro is actually shocked into opening his eyes again, and he can feel Ryou’s surprise too, as his clone stares own at him from the pilot’s seat.   
  
But then the moment for shock is over. The panels and screens of the Black Lion light up around them, casting the soft, familiar purple glow over their faces as the Lion activates at Ryou’s touch. Shiro can still feel Ryou’s surprise, distantly, but he also feels his clone shove it to the back of his mind as he focuses more actively on the immediate task at hand: escape.   
  
And Shiro can feel the shock draining for him, too. Ryou has this well in hand, and he’s so damn tired…his mind starts to sink under, and his eyes slip closed again.  
  
“No, no, hang on, Shiro,” Ryou tells him, and he can _feel_ the thoughts in his head, too, frantic and pleading. “Hang on, we’re going to go get help, now—“  
  
But he can’t. He _can’t._ He’s so tired and he’s burning alive inside, and he’s spent every drop of energy he has. He tries to hold on, but he can’t, and he slips further under.   
  
“No, Shiro, come on—“  
  
 _I will hold him,_ the Black Lion says. _He will be safe. We will save him._   
  
Shiro’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, until he feels the powerful consciousness of the Black Lion curl tighter around his mind, encircling his sluggish thoughts. He’s still sinking, but suddenly it feels safer, cooler, gentler; not like he’s falling into the dark, but like he knows someone is waiting to catch him.  
  
He sighs once, softly, and slips under into a sleep guarded by the Black Lion.


	5. Epilogue: The Victors

Shiro wakes in a cryo-pod.  
  
It’s a bit shocking, at first, to find himself stumbling out of a pod when his last memory is of laying prone in the Black Lion’s cabin. But the confusion slips away from him almost immediately as the rest of the paladins, Matt and Coran greet him, relieved and smiling. Keith nudges him towards the stairs for him to sit, Hunk throws a blanket around his shoulders, and Pidge offers him a cup of water. Shiro downs it thirstily, aware of just how dry his mouth and throat are, and just how badly he needs it.  
  
Once the immediate needs are taken care of, he looks around again. Everyone is there, welcoming him back and asking how he feels. Everyone but one person, that is, who is suspiciously absent considering the circumstances.  
  
“Where’s Ryou?” Shiro asks, looking around again. “Is he alright?” He glances anxiously at Ryou’s specialized pod—now decked with bright star stickers and labeled, courtesy of Lance, to Coran’s exasperation and Ryou’s bemusement—but Ryou isn’t secured inside it, either.   
  
“Relax,” Keith says. “He’s fine. He got out of healing only a couple vargas after he piloted you and the Black Lion back. His injuries weren’t even that extensive—bruising, abrasions, minor cuts.”  
  
“You’ve been in for almost a full quintent,” Allura adds, at Shiro’s confusion. “The toxins in your bloodstream were causing a great deal of damage. It took the cryo-pod some time to break them down and clear them from your body before it could heal the injury.”   
  
“But everyone is okay,” Shiro summarizes, with a relieved sigh. That takes a weight off of his shoulders immediately.  
  
“Everyone is fine,” Matt agrees. “Ryou even filled us in on everything that happened. Who knew Xencherak was totally crazy? I asked Olia about it, and she says she never heard of anything like this before.”   
  
“That’s how he planned it,” Shiro agrees. He looks around again, frowning. “If Ryou is fine…does anyone know where he is?” Considering how worried he remembers Ryou being at the end, there, he’s a little surprised his clone wasn’t waiting for him when he got out.   
  
“He’s been in and out,” Lance says, crossing his arms and frowning a little. “Pokes his head in to see how you’re doing, but he doesn’t stay very long.”   
  
“I believe he had agreed to take care of some tasks for me, while I was monitoring Shiro’s health in the pod,” Coran volunteers. But he meets Shiro’s eyes and gives him a significant look, and Shiro knows there’s more to the story than that—something private, that the others don’t know.  
  
Which means it probably has to do with some of the things he’d disclosed about Ryou to Coran, during Ryou’s illness, regarding his fear of the cryo-pods, and oh. _Oh._ Of course. It’s weird enough for Shiro to see Ryou in the pods, when he’s healing—vaguely eerie and very strange. But it’s got to be worse for Ryou, who has far more of a history of seeing people who look exactly like him sleeping their lives away in tubes. Were their positions reversed, Shiro probably wouldn’t stick around for very long, either.   
  
“He said he thought you’d be hungry, when you got out of the pod,” Hunk says. “I wanted to wait for you, since Coran said you’d be waking up soon. He offered to make something instead. Maybe he’s still there?”  
  
“Maybe,” Shiro agrees. Now that Hunk mentions it, he is _very_ hungry, and his stomach rumbles alarmingly. All he’s had to eat in several days are a few strips of charred bouldernoose meat, and mouthfuls of gritty water. Remedying that sounds like a fantastic idea.   
  
That, and tracking down Ryou. Now that the danger is out of the way, they have some things that need discussing about the past few quintents. He’d said they’d be addressing it after the mess was over, and they’d lived. Well, it was over, and somehow, miraculously, they’d both made it to the end. It’s more than time.   
  
“Great!” Lance says brightly. “We can get an early lunch in, and catch up on things.”   
  
But Shiro’s not so sure he wants an audience. Keith seems to pick up on his intentions, because he says, “We have training to do. We were scheduled for some combat routines today.”  
  
“What? But Shiro’s right _here_ ,” Lance says. “He can just call it off. Can’t you, Shiro?”  
  
Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Call off training? No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. If you guys were already supposed to be scheduled for it while Ryou and I were away, you should keep that schedule up. I promise I can track down some lunch by myself.”  
  
Hunk snorts at that. “On your own, I wouldn’t believe that. But since Ryou’s the one cooking, I’ll trust him to make sure your lunch is edible, and actually good for you.”  
  
“Even Hunk approves,” Matt says cheerfully. “C’mon, I’ll join you guys for combat practice. I can show you some cool rebel moves.” He glances up at Shiro and offers him a conspiring wink.   
  
Thank goodness for Matt and Keith. They’d never heard the details, but they could probably at least suspect why Ryou wasn’t there, and they knew Shiro enough to know there were things on his mind.   
  
_“Fine,”_ Lance grumbles, as he heads for the door, herded by Matt. The others troop out after him, until only Keith is left.   
  
Keith hesitates for a moment, eyeing Shiro with concern. “Everything okay?”  
  
“Everything will be,” Shiro says. He’s sure that’s not a lie. “Just a few things I need to talk over with Ryou.”  
  
“He gave us the basics,” Keith offers. “Enough to know what happened. But there were some parts where he was a little…less revealing with the details. I think he had some things on his mind, too.”  
  
“A lot of things happened,” Shiro agrees.   
  
Keith shrugs. “You can tell me about it later, if you want,” he offers. “But for now, I’ll keep everyone busy in practice. We really were scheduled for it, today. You guys weren’t supposed to be back until sometime tomorrow, but we didn’t have any missions planned since you had the Black Lion, so…”  
  
Shiro smiles. “You’re doing great, Keith,” he says. “And I appreciate you buying us a little time.”  
  
“Sure. Let me know if you guys need anything else.” And he’s gone, catching up with the others on the way to the training deck.   
  
Shiro only detours to his room long enough to get a fresh set of clothing and change out of the cryo-pod healing suit. Fortunately, someone had managed to clean up his Galra hand prior to putting him in the pod, picking out the melted and broken bits lodged into the joints of his fingers. It’s fully functional again, which makes getting dressed much easier than he’d first anticipated. Then he’s off to the kitchen, looking forward to a decent meal, and not looking forward to the upcoming conversation.   
  
He finds Ryou in the kitchen, just as Hunk had said, wiping down the counters and putting away containers of spices and canisters of leftover raw foods. There’s something bubbling on the stovetop, and a delicious aroma wafts through the doorway as Shiro enters.  
  
Ryou spots him immediately, and his face lights up in relief. “Hey, you’re up!” He smiles, but then his expression grows more uncomfortable, and he stares at the counter awkwardly. “Sorry I wasn’t there. I’ve been checking in, but seeing you like that is always a little disturbing…” He swallows.  
  
“It’s fine,” Shiro reassures. “I get it, I don’t mind. I’m just glad you’re safe.”  
  
“Mostly,” Ryou agrees. “Though Coran’s set my expected fieldwork return date back another three spicolian movements, after that fiasco. Something about straining myself too much before I was ready.” He grumbles to himself.  
  
Shiro feels for him. He knows how hard Ryou’s worked, to be mission-ready again. He moves the topic along, before Ryou can dwell too much on it. “Looks like your arm got fixed up, too?” He gestures to Ryou’s Olkari arm, now free of deep tooth marks.  
  
Ryou lifts it and flexes his fingers, forming a fist and demonstrating the ripple of synthetic muscle through the artificial arm. “Yeah,” he says. “I stopped in at Olkari after I got out of the pod and it was pretty clear you were gonna be in there for a while. Took Ryner maybe five doboshes to fix it up. She took some notes on how bad the damage was and how it transmitted as much pain as it did. Her people are trying to design an upgraded version that either self-heals better, or hurts less.” He gives Shiro a pointed look. “It’ll be an even better model for you, once they work it out.”  
  
Shiro can’t help but roll his eyes. “You’re already trying to upsell? I haven't even been up for a varga. Besides, this hand fed us and saved our lives.” He raises his own Galra arm, and wiggles the fingers. “It’s not ideal, but it’s not completely useless. The difference is good—it brings different strengths to play, and they cover each others’ weaknesses.”   
  
Ryou shakes his head. “‘Fed’ is a strong word,” he says, “but I’ll let it go for now. But speaking of, you’ve got to be starving. I was, when I got out. Bet you could eat a whole bouldernoose now, couldn’t you?”  
  
“Probably, but I’ll settle for a bowl of food goo,” Shiro says.  
  
“Why settle? I’ve been working on some palmagoren stew,” Ryou says, gesturing to the bubbling pot on the stove. “It’s filling and I have Hunk’s approval on it, plus I know you like it.” He pauses. “Wait…you _do_ like it, right? I thought I remembered that right. Pretty sure. I know I like it, but I can’t remember if that’s you, or me.”  
  
“I like it just fine.” Shiro frowns. “Are you okay? You did get your medication when you came back, right?” The last thing he needs is for that entire debacle to lead to Ryou starting to lose his memories again.  
  
But Ryou only gives him an exasperated look as he dishes up two bowls of the stew, and sets one in front of Shiro and the other in front of himself. “ _Relax,_ Shiro, I’m fine,” he promises. “I am fully medicated again and have a clean bill of health from Coran. Honestly, he said I probably would have been fine for another three or four quintents, there was no sign of any failsafe damage showing to begin with. Just, sometimes, after the memories I _did_ lose, it’s hard to keep track of what used to be yours and maybe still survived the sickness, and what’s actually definitely mine that I’ve re-developed myself. Especially for the little things that might be the same, like tastes.” He slaps a spoon and a cup of water down in front of Shiro, and adds, “Now eat up.”   
  
Shiro can’t argue with that, and he digs into the stew with enthusiasm. It’s Hunk’s recipe, and Ryou had re-learned everything he or Shiro had ever known about cooking from Hunk, so while its presentation is somewhat lacking it still tastes good. For Shiro, who hasn’t had a decent meal since Xencherak’s dinner table, it’s practically heavenly, and feels wonderfully filling on his empty stomach.   
  
He polishes off the first bowl easy, as does Ryou. It’s only when they both move on to a second, at a slower, less ravenous pace, that they start to get into the other reason for the mostly solitary meal together.   
  
“I wouldn’t have really left you, you know,” Ryou blurts out suddenly. “Or stopped fighting.”  
  
Shiro pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth, and says intelligently, “Huh?”  
  
“When I told Xencherak I’d run,” Ryou says. “When I threatened to do anything to steal his kill. I was bluffing. You know I was bluffing, right?”  
  
“I wasn’t thrilled with that last part,” Shiro admits. “When I told you to run, it had been with the intention of you _escaping_ , not giving up. But I know you were just trying to draw him out.” He smiles weakly. “If I couldn’t convince you to run, I didn’t think Xencherak having me captured was really going to change anything.”   
  
Ryou looks a little relieved at that. “I don’t know that I’d have even run then,” he admits softly. “If he’d killed you then and there…I don’t know. I’d like to think I’d have been smart about it. Figured out a way to keep surviving. Somebody had to make it back. But when he had you, I was scared to death. If he’d actually killed you…” He shrugs, staring down into his bowl of half-eaten stew.   
  
“It didn’t happen,” Shiro says. “You were smart. You knew exactly what to say to goad him into a fight that was more on your terms than his. It worked, in the end. Though your overall planning could use some work,” he finishes dryly. “Eaten by angry bouldernoose is not how either of us ought to go down.”   
  
“I am so tired of almost being eaten by things,” Ryou agrees.  
  
Shiro’s eyes narrow a little. “I’m not disagreeing, but you shouldn’t have been in that position at all.”  
  
“Hey, we already had this conversation. I didn’t have much of a choice when we were in there, I just had to do what I could—“  
  
“No,” Shiro interrupts him. “You _did_ have a choice. And I _did_ say we’d be revisiting this, after.” Ryou stares at him, and Shiro says pointedly, “Pretending to be Champion? Drawing Xencherak’s line of fire? He was after _me,_ Ryou. You _never_ should have been in that challenge to begin with.”   
  
“And what _should_ I have done?” Ryou asks, scowling a little. “Let them capture me? You heard him—his original plan was to sell me back to the Galra. Do you know what happens if they get a hold of me again? Because it’s not going to be an arena, let me tell you that.”   
  
“You didn’t know that at the time,” Shiro says. “And we didn’t know what the challenge was, either. For all you knew, you were stepping into an arena fight against god only knows what, knowing full well you weren’t ready for combat. And you were doing it _as me_ , carrying _all_ the grudges and preconceptions anyone has ever had about Champion. That’s a death sentence, in your condition.”   
  
“And like I told _you_ before,” Ryou counters, “I could stall. I have abilities you don’t, with this Olkari arm. _You_ were the only one equipped to escape, and save the _both_ of us.”   
  
His expression softens. “He was gunning for you, Shiro. He already knew every move you could make. At least I could shake it up a little. You were supposed to die right away. I threw a wrench in things. It’s what I’m good at—throwing plans off kilter.”  
  
And there it is—the heart of the entire argument, when they dig down to the surface. Shiro sighs, and rubs his forehead with his left hand. “I don’t like you doing that,” he says finally, trying to make sense of his muddled thoughts. “Pretending to be me again, just to take a hit for me instead. Falling back into what the Galra designed you to do. You’re _not_ my body double anymore, Ryou. I’m not okay with this…treating yourself like you can swap out with me just to take the worst of the hits. It worked _this_ time, but next time it could be fatal, or you could lose something important to you. It’s not right. You need to be what _you_ want.”  
  
“And what if this _is_ what I want?” Ryou asks.  
  
Shiro frowns at him. “What?”  
  
“See, that’s the thing you’re not really seeing, right now,” Ryou says, gesturing at Shiro with his spoon. “You’re assuming I’m doing this out of some sort of…of self-sacrifice, or because it’s what I was ‘made’ to do, and something in my head just keeps telling me to fake being you. That’s not it, and I need you to understand that, right here, right now.”   
  
“Explain,” Shiro says, brows furrowed in confusion.   
  
“I’ve got a niche,” Ryou says. “It’s a weird, bizarre, one-in-a-million kind of niche, but it’s there. Regardless of how it happened, I’m basically identical to you, and there’s enough left of you in me that I can still reasonably fake it.   
  
“And you’re a high priority target, Shiro. People have it out for you specifically, even outside of the Galra Empire. Xencherak proved that. Beyond that, the Galra _hate_ you. That’s the whole reason I’m even here. They made me to usurp you, but they gave me all the skills to play you, too, and I’ll be damned if I let that go to waste. If I can use that _against_ them—turn it around on your enemies—then I’m going to.”   
  
Shiro shakes his head. “You’re putting yourself in a lot of danger if you do.”  
  
“I’m already in danger by virtue of looking like you, anyway,” Ryou says. “By working with Voltron. By being what I am. It’s not that much of a step up, really. But it _can_ take some of the pressure off of your shoulders. I think that’s worth using, if we can figure out how.”  
  
“It didn’t help here, not in the long run. It just put you in danger, too.”  
  
“Wrong,” Ryou counters. “It saved your life. Xencherak didn’t drag you out _alive_ to taunt diplomat Ryou. He did it to taunt ‘Champion.’ He didn’t murder you right away because he didn’t know who you were. He thought that was _me._ ”  
  
Shiro wants to tell him he’s wrong, but something uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach stops him. It would be a lie. Ryou’s guessing, but it’s not a bad guess based on what had happened, and he’s not _wrong._ Xencherak had been all set to kill him, up until the point he’d realized Shiro wasn’t Ryou. He could have been murdered in the cave, but Ryou’s deception had kept them both alive.   
  
But it doesn’t sit right with Shiro. “That’s my burden,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to carry it, or the risk that comes with it. You _shouldn’t_ have to fall back to being me.”  
  
“I’m not,” Ryou says. “This is me, _Ryou,_ with a unique skillset that could be useful down the line. It’s not any different than you choosing Lance for a mission because he’s the best shot, or Pidge for a mission because she’s good at staying unseen.”   
  
“It’s a fine line, Ryou,” Shiro warns. “Too fine, and you struggle with the difference enough as it is. You didn’t like putting on the black paladin armor because it would be too easy to fall back into being me. _Being_ me, not just _acting_ like me. It would be so easy for you to slip. You’ve worked too hard to find yourself to just let that happen.”   
  
“It’s for me to figure out the line,” Ryou says. “Not something for you to worry over. And if it saves your life, if it’s something that _needs_ to be done, I think it’s worth the risk.”  
  
Shiro closes his eyes. Breathes in and out, once, trying to steady himself. “You don’t intend to stop doing this, do you.”  
  
“No,” Ryou says. “Not if it can be useful, somewhere. But I will compromise with you on figuring out how to use it. It was spur of the moment against Xencherak and half-assed at best. I think it can be handled better, with more intent, if we plan it right.”   
  
“I’m not comfortable with you playing my body-double just to take a hit for me,” Shiro says. “I don’t want you throwing your life away. You’re not disposable.”  
  
Ryou blinks at him, incredulous. “That’s not what this is at all,” he says, stunned. “Look, I think we both proved in this whole mess that we’d both take a bullet for the other in a heartbeat, and that’s not going to change, for either of us. But the goal is to get us both out _alive._   
  
“People have certain expectations for you. You’ve been studied. They know how you fight. They have access to how you _think.”_ He taps his own temple. “I can play all of that, but when push comes to shove, I can be _different_ now. Xencherak didn’t plan on my range, and that cost him. I bluffed him into keeping us both alive. My combat styles aren’t the same as yours anymore and can’t be planned for. I can _make_ something of this. I can make a difference, and throw everything the Galra ever made me for right back in their face. But I need you to trust that I _can.”_   
  
His expression softens. “I’m not trying to steal your life, not again. I’m not going back to that. And I don’t plan to throw my life away meaninglessly. I know I’m not disposable. But this is something I _can_ do. Something that’s _me_. Let me figure out how to use it, okay?”  
  
Shiro takes another deep breath. “We’ll…talk about it,” he says, after a moment. Ryou has some fair points, and it could be useful, in certain situations. He’s not comfortable with it, but Ryou isn’t wrong; he needs enough distance to think of this as a skillset Ryou can bring to the table, not as a regression.   
  
But that’s not easy. Not when ‘Champion’ is such a heavy weight on his shoulders, not when he’s gotten accustomed to the burdens of leadership and the gaze of the Galra on him. It’s a scary place to be, but it means he’s got the target on his back, and no one else. It’s not easy to pass the target to someone else. No matter how readily they’re prepared for it. No matter how they could turn the tables at the last minute. Not if it costs them their individuality or their lives.  
  
“That’s fair,” Ryou agrees. “It’s a little much to take in all at once, and I’ve had longer to think about it than you. And it’s still a very situational skill. It might never come up at all. Take time to think about it, and we can talk strategy later.”   
  
“Alright,” Shiro agrees.  
  
“Great. Now it’s your turn,” Ryou says. “What did you dream about?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“The last night of the game,” Ryou clarifies. “You had a bad nightmare. You didn’t want to go into details then, and I didn’t press, because we didn’t have a lot of time. But you did promise you’d tell me later. It’s later. What was it about?”  
  
Shiro grimaces. “It’s really not that important.”  
  
Ryou frowns at him. “Any dream that gets that kind of reaction out of you is not ‘not that important,’ “ he says. “I’ve been in your head. I’d know.”  
  
“I was feverish. Fever dreams are always uncomfortable.”   
  
“Not wrong, but you’re dodging the question.” He cocks his head, considering. “It was about me, wasn’t it?”  
  
Shiro doesn’t say anything, which is probably answer enough, considering how much they still think alike.   
  
“You know you can trust me with _all_ of that, right?” Ryou asks. “All the nightmares, the bad thoughts, even if I’m the subject matter. I’m not going to fall apart. I know I’ve forgotten some of it, but I can still handle it. Unless you’d rather talk to somebody else…”   
  
“No,” Shiro says, suddenly tired. The others would probably understand even less, and it’s not something he wants to burden any of them with. “It’s…you died. In the dream.”   
  
Ryou remains carefully silent, listening without commentary.  
  
“It wasn’t from the game,” Shiro elaborates, slowly. “It was the failsafe. There wasn’t a cure. We couldn’t save you. _I_ couldn’t save you. So you died. Cruelly. You didn’t understand why. I don’t think you understood anything by then. But it was…it was really close to what happened, in real life. You were so close…”  
  
“That’s not what happened,” Ryou says, very quietly. “I’m here today _because_ of you.”   
  
“I know,” Shiro says. “I know that, rationally. Tell that to my subconscious.”   
  
“Is that why you wouldn’t say anything then?”  
  
“I hadn’t realized you were trying so hard to prove you could handle it,” Shiro admits. “You were so frustrated. I hadn’t thought…I wasn’t _trying_ to coddle you, or anything. I do trust that you can handle yourself. It’s just…hard to let go, after I’d spent so long keeping you safe. But I was trying. Admitting I’d dreamed that you couldn’t handle it right away didn’t seem like the right way to show you that.”   
  
“I wouldn’t have gotten on your case for that,” Ryou says, sighing. “Nightmares aren’t the same as active choices. And I knew you were trying, already.”   
  
He looks Shiro in the eye. “Listen. I’m not so easy to get rid of. It’s going to take a lot more than that to kill me. What happened in that dream wasn’t real, and I’m right here. _You_ saved my life. I’ve got a chance to make something of myself because of _you._ And I’m more grateful for that than you’ll probably ever know.”   
  
“Even if that means getting stuck in an alien version of _The Most Dangerous Game?”_ Shiro asks, with a pitiful attempt at humor.   
  
“I don’t remember what that is,” Ryou says frankly, “but yes, even if.”  
  
“It’s a story,” Shiro says mildly. “Pidge might have it.”  
  
“If it’s basically what we just lived through, I’ll pass. Once was enough,” Ryou says. “Seriously, though. Thanks. And thanks for trusting me to handle myself. I know that wasn’t easy for you, and I get why, now. You gave me a chance anyway. I appreciate it.”  
  
“Yeah, well.” Shiro shrugs. "You...did well. I'm sorry I got so overprotective. And I can't promise that I won't do it in the future. It's not an easy habit to break, and I'd be lying if I said I won't worry. But I'll try."  
  
"I believe you. Doesn't mean I won't complain about it if you get overbearing again, though."  
  
Shiro smiles weakly. "I should be thanking you too. I’m still not happy with how you did it, but you did save my life. I’m not sure how that challenge would have gone down if I’d been on my own. Working together was probably for the best.”   
  
Ryou snorts at that, and finally returns to his bowl of stew. “You’re welcome. Now eat, before that gets cold, or Hunk will be after my hide for not making you eat it properly.”  
  
Shiro smiles at that, and scoops up another spoonful of stew. “Have we heard from Rembeliss since?” he asks, before taking another bite.  
  
Ryou makes a face. “My first diplomatic mission was a flop,” he says solemnly. “They refused to join the coalition. They’re also a little pissed about us killing their leader, which was really the only thing we could have possibly done to ruin what was otherwise an alliance in the bag.”   
  
“He had it coming,” Shiro says. “Are we at war with them, too?”  
  
“Not officially. And they’re not joining the Galra, either,” Ryou says. “They need to figure out succession first, and it sounds like it might take a while. Xencherak was so obsessed with the hunt he never actually had kids. Now there’s dozens of warriors coming out of the woodwork to claim they’re the next best and worthy of the title Exalt. It’s going to take them decafeebs to figure it out.”  
  
“At least we don’t have to worry about a two front war,” Shiro says, relieved. “They could have been difficult opponents, alongside the Galra.”   
  
“There’s that,” Ryou agrees. “So, what’s next for Voltron?”  
  
 _“You_ start by working on recovering,” Shiro says. “At this point, I’m inclined to pull you off diplomatic missions until you’re fully combat ready.”  
  
“Oh, come on. Didn't you just promise to stop being overprotective? What are the odds _that_ will happen again?”  
  
“Why don’t we call Slav and ask?” Shiro says. “I’m sure it’s a much higher number than anticipated.”  
  
“No need for that,” Ryou grumbles. “But you do understand you just used Slav's crazy probabilities as an argument, so if you need any proof that you're being over the top, there it is. Okay. Fine. So I'm off missions until I'm ready to go. And after?”  
  
“After, you need to pick a color,” Shiro says, “because I have a feeling we’re going to need all the backup we can get after this. Whatever form it comes in.”  
  
Ryou smiles. “I’ll start thinking on it now.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
He polishes off the last of his stew as Ryou explains everything that had happened since Shiro had passed out on the Black Lion. How communications had come back online as soon as he’d broken orbit. How he’d radioed ahead to warn them to prepare for a medical emergency, as well as broken prosthetics. How he’d initially confused everyone, when they’d come bowling into the Black Lion’s cabin to carry Shiro to medical help, only to find the two of them with switched outfits.   
  
He listens, but he also thinks back over the events himself. Things had been difficult. They’d been dangerous. He’d been scared, more for Ryou than himself. But somehow, they’d made it. Somehow, things had worked out. Ryou had proven himself, and Shiro had learned to let go a little. Neither had been easy, but both had been necessary, in their own way.  
  
Because there are more battles ahead. Both of them have to be ready, for whatever it calls for, whatever it takes. There are difficult choices ahead, and the war isn’t even close to over.  
  
But they handled it this time. They were strong enough to do it, and they’d gotten stronger. And Shiro figures, whatever comes his way—whatever comes Ryou’s way—they’ve both proven they’re capable enough to handle it, in their own ways.  
  
And for the moment, that’s enough for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun with S5 everybody! :)


End file.
